Ian Rankin - Beggars Banquet

Which is why Chick Morrison went to the casino the night his wife finally walked out. She’d left a note explaining that she wasn’t leaving him; it was just that she couldn’t stand his habits any longer. He tore her note up. It had taken her several attempts: the rejects were little crumpled balls in the kitchen bin. He lifted each one out and spread them on the table, trying to work out their chronological sequence. It wasn’t just a matter of the shortest one being the first attempt: each began on a different tack.

She was leaving him because she felt lost, and had to find herself.

She was leaving him because it would be cruel not to.

She was leaving him – well, he had to admire her for all the effort she’d taken, all the effort she’d felt he merited. Or maybe she just didn’t want him going after her. The thing was, he’d already started – started and finished, really. He’d been following her on and off for three weeks, had seen her enter the man’s house, had watched her leave, patting her hair back into place. He’d taken to tailing the man, too, not knowing why: wondering, maybe, if he could learn something, something about the kind of man his wife wanted him to be. But all he’d felt was growing tiredness, and, in a moment of sharp lucidity, that he didn’t care any more, didn’t love her any more.

Which didn’t make it any easier to just let her go. He’d wondered about killing her, making ever more convoluted plans. He knew the problem with murder was that the spouse was always first in the frame. So the murder had to be perfect. He needed either a cast-iron alibi or to make sure the body was never found. It was a matter of pride, wasn’t it? For years, on and off, he’d enjoyed the fantasy of being the one to walk out, the one to make the break. And now she’d beaten him to it: she was the one starting the new life; which meant he was the one who’d been left in the lurch. He didn’t like that. He resolved to do something about it.

What he did was drive into Aberdeen, park the car, and hit the pubs and clubs. And at closing time, as he was being escorted from the final hostelry, he’d seen lights and smoked-glass doors with an illuminated staircase behind them. The casino.

Lucky at cards, unlucky in love. He’d proven the latter; it was time to give the former a chance.

Walked in, watched for a little while, getting a feel for the place. That was what he did, in his line of work: he tried to fit in as quickly as possible, melt into the scenery. The person you didn’t notice as you left your hotel assignation or partook of a final embrace in an apparently empty car park. Those were the moments when Chick would catch you with his camera, making sure you were in the frame.

But that night, he felt he wanted to be seen. So he sat in on a card game. Did all right at first, losing a little here, winning a hand or two there. He was not a natural card-player. He knew how to play, knew all about card-counting, but wasn’t up to it. He liked to pretend games were all about luck rather than the playing of percentages.

He wrote out a cheque, backed it with his banker’s card. The new stack of chips arrived and he began the dogged task of giving them away. His occasional brash bets were whittled away to steady tosses of a single chip into the pot. It was late into the night; most of the tables were quiet. Gamblers who’d finished for the evening were standing around the table, a phalanx which seemed to constrain those still playing. To get up and leave… in front of an audience. It would have been like walking away from a fight.

He slid another chip across the smooth green cloth, received a card. There were four people playing, but he felt it had become personal between himself and the sweating man opposite. He could smell the man, could feel his heavy breath brushing his cheek and cooling it. The man had an American accent: fat-cat oil-executive-type. So when his opponent won for the umpteenth time, that was enough for Chick. He had found an escape clause, a way to get out without losing face.

He leapt to his feet, accused the man of cheating. People were telling him to calm down. They were telling him he was just not a very good player. Saying it wasn’t his night, but there’d be others. He was looking around for whoever had said he wasn’t any good. His eyes landed on those of the American, who seemed to be smiling as he pulled the chips in with a thick, hairless arm. Chick pointed at the man.

‘I’ll have you, pal.’

‘If you get lucky,’ the man said.

Then there were security men on Chick, hauling him out of there as he yelled back at the table, face red from embarrassment, knowing his escape clause had turned sour on him, same as everything else. One of the other players was leaning over to talk to the fat man as Chick was dragged away. He got the idea the man was telling the winner who his opponent had been.

‘Chick Morrison!’ Chick called out to the room. ‘And don’t you ever forget it!’

He spent the next couple of days not answering the phone. There was an answering machine behind the sofa, and he’d lie there listening to the messages. Usually, there was horse-racing on TV, which he watched with the sound down, making mental bets which didn’t pay out but didn’t cost him anything either.

The messages were not important. There was another machine at his office, and it would be collecting any offers of work. Eventually, he knew he’d go to the office, get back into a routine. He tried telling himself he was enjoying the break. All he ever did in his job was provide photos for suspicious spouses.

There was nothing from his wife. He thought about heading to her new beau’s house – wouldn’t that surprise them? – but didn’t. One or two past and potential clients did call him. His home phone number was part of the message they got if they called his office, though it warned them to call his home only in an emergency. The calls he listened to didn’t sound like emergencies. A woman who was on her third husband. She’d had him investigate all three. He’d reported back that they were all good and true and faithful, but she didn’t sound convinced.

A man who was on the run from his wife. She wanted maintenance payments, money the man said he didn’t have. Now he thought she’d hired a private detective, and wanted to hire one of his own to find out.

And how, Chick wondered, was he going to get paid, when the man had no money for maintenance…? Some of these people…

But then she rang. And the sound of her voice made him replay the tape. And on the third play, he found himself reaching for pen and notepad, taking down her number, calling her back.

‘I’m glad you could come in at such short notice,’ she said.

It was after hours at the car showroom. She’d told him the door would be open, he could let himself in. To get to her office, he’d walked past a gleaming display of supercars. Chick had never been inside the showroom before; knew there was nothing here he’d be able to afford.

She held out her hand and he took it. She was a well-preserved fifty, expensive hair and just the right amount of make-up. He told her he’d always imagined the J. Gemmell of J. Gemmell Motors would be a man. She smiled.

‘Surprises a lot of people. The J’s for Jacqueline.’

He sat down opposite her, asked what it was he could do for her. She told him she had a repo job.

‘That’s what they call it, isn’t it?’

Chick nodded, though he wasn’t sure himself. He took down details as she told him about the car. It was a top-of-the-range Lexus, bought on credit. The last two monthly payments hadn’t come through, and the buyer had done a bunk.

‘I put word out discreetly,’ she told Chick. ‘I don’t want it getting about that I’m an easy target. That’s where you come in.’ She told him a garage on the outskirts of Inverness had reported the Lexus stopping for petrol. The driver had told the attendant he was on his way to his holiday place in the hills above Loch Ness. ‘I want you to find him, Mr Morrison, and bring my car back here.’