Craig Russell - The Deep Dark Sleep

I regarded Downey. I guessed he was of Irish Catholic stock, brought up in Glasgow, which put you at the bottom of the social pile. And Iain, the Duke’s son, was right at the top. In class-obsessed Britain, I couldn’t work out how they could possibly have been ‘close’, as Downey had put it.

‘It isn’t that unusual,’ he said, reading my mind. ‘It’s a different world. You should see the businessmen and toffs who hang around Glasgow Green looking for a bit of rough. I met Iain at a party in the West End.’

‘Does he have copies of the photographs?’ I asked, suddenly seeing a much more complicated task in front of me.

‘No.’ He nodded to the tin box that I had laid back on the table. ‘That’s everything.’

We were interrupted by Frank, who lunged into the doorframe, trying to focus his gaze on me. He made a clumsy charge and I easily sidestepped him, slamming my elbow into the bridge of his nose as he careered past. He hurtled into the table and sent the tray with the burning prints and negatives crashing to the floor with him. He wasn’t out this time, but rolled over onto his side and cupped his busted nose, blood everywhere. He was finished.

Downey had started to shake again. I grabbed him by the shirtfront once more and pulled him towards me.

‘Is our business with each other concluded, Mr Downey?’

‘Yes,’ he said in a quivering tone. ‘You won’t hear from me again, I swear.’

I pushed him against the wall again and he screwed his face up tight. He knew he was going to take a beating, just to get the message across. I balled my fist.

‘Just make sure you don’t,’ I said. I maybe should have slapped him around a bit, just to reinforce the point, as Fraser had asked for in his roundabout way. But I had my limits, I was surprised and pleased to discover, and I let him go. ‘You better see to your girlfriend.’

We met at the Central Hotel, in a private dining room, at nine-thirty.

After I had left Downey, I had used the same call box at the corner of the street to get in touch with Fraser and Leonora Bryson. I told them both that I had all the copies and negatives and I had put Downey and his friend out of business. I didn’t mention at that stage that I’d found out that Iain, the aristo in the pictures, had planned to be on the receiving end in more ways than one. I had decided I could tell them when we got together, which would buy me some time to think about what it meant.

John Macready was wearing a grey chalk-stripe, double breasted suit with a white shirt and burgundy silk tie that looked like they had just been hand delivered from Jermyn Street. The guy had style, I had to give him that. He sat smoking but stood up and shook my hand when I came in. Donald Fraser and Leonora Bryson remained glued to the upholstery. I had business on my mind, but Leonora was wearing a blue silk dress that looked like the silkworms had oozed it out directly onto her skin. Her hair was up and her throat bounded by a four tier pearl choker. She sat smoking and looking at me disinterestedly, or uninterestedly, or both. I couldn’t help thinking about the night in the room upstairs and felt the urge to go over there and start tearing silk, but I guessed that would have contravened business meeting etiquette.

‘Did you run into problems?’ Fraser asked, indicating the plaster on my cheek.

‘No … this is unrelated. Everything went pretty much as I thought it would.’

‘You have the items?’ Fraser asked me. I handed over the tartan tin.

‘No … I thought I would bring you some shortbread instead. A souvenir of Scotland for our American guests.’

He looked at me blankly with his beady lawyer’s eyes. As I didn’t have a dictionary to show him the definition of the word humour , I decided to play it straight.

‘They’re in there …’ I said, nodding to the shortbread tin.

‘All of them?’ asked Leonora.

‘All of them,’ I said.

‘You’re sure?’ asked Fraser.

‘I’m sure. Downey was too scared to hold back, and I saw the set-up for myself. All the negatives are there. And, just for good measure, I burned every other piece of film I could find.’ I turned to the actor. ‘It’s over, Mr Macready. You can rest easy.’

‘I appreciate that, Mr Lennox.’ He smiled at me, but I didn’t get the full one hundred watt business. ‘I really do. If ever I can be of any help to you, please let me know. Mr Fraser, do you think it would be possible to give Mr Lennox a small bonus? After all, he really did sort this out very quickly for us.’

Fraser was caught totally off guard. He flustered for a moment, then reached into his jacket pocket and produced a juicily thick buff envelope.

‘Your fee is in there, Mr Lennox. Four thousand pounds. Not bad for a few days’ work. I trust you’ll appreciate there’s an element of hush money in there. You can never discuss this with anyone.’

‘Obviously.’

‘And we’re paying you cash. No need to go through the books. I doubt if the taxman would believe it was the proceeds of just one assignment that lasted less than a week.’

‘This means I won’t have to convince him.’ I held up the envelope before slipping it into my inside jacket pocket; close to my heart, where money tended to find a natural home. ‘And don’t worry about a bonus, Mr Macready … this is more than enough.’

In fact, it was the most I had earned in one go at any time. And three times what I’d earned in the whole of the previous year.

Macready rose to shake my hand again. The meeting was over.

‘There is one more thing,’ I said, not getting up.

‘Oh?’

‘As I discussed with Miss Bryson, it never did fit with me the way these photographs were taken, given that your visit to Iain’s was supposed to be spur of the moment. When I asked you if you could guess how the photographs were taken, or where you thought the photographer could have concealed himself, you said that it was a mystery. Your guess was that they were taken through a window.’

‘Yes …’

‘The clarity and quality of the images suggested to me that they were taken somehow from inside the cottage. They were. There was a false mirror. Two-way. The camera and photographer were hidden behind them in the next room.’

Macready lit a cigarette and took a pull on it before answering.

‘So you’re saying Iain, or someone connected to the cottage or estate was in on it?’

‘According to Downey, yes. It was Iain. He set the whole thing up to raise cash for some reason he can’t tell Daddy the Duke about. Someone’s leaning heavily on Downey for money and maybe Iain’s under the same pressure. He guessed you would pay anything to stop the photographs falling into the wrong hands. In other words, anyone else’s hands other than your own.’

‘You’ve got proof of this?’ asked Fraser.

‘Downey admitted it to me. And trust me, Paul Downey has neither the brains nor the balls to come up with this on his own. Now, I can’t really knock seven shades out of the son of a peer of the realm, but if you want me to talk to Iain, I’ll do it.’ I tapped the envelope in my pocket. ‘And you have a little credit with me.’

‘What do you think, Mr Macready?’ Fraser asked. I could see the American actor was deep in thought. It was not a nice prospect, knowing that you had been deliberately set up and used.

‘What would your advice be, Mr Fraser?’ he said eventually and a little wearily.

Fraser made the type of face lawyers make to tell you that they’re thinking and shouldn’t be interrupted, because they’re thinking at premium rate. ‘I suggest we leave it, for the moment at least, Mr Macready. We have the photographs and the negatives, which can now be destroyed. It should be the end of the matter. And given the status and influence of Iain’s father, it could be a lot more trouble than it’s worth.’