Ian Rankin - Beggars Banquet

‘You see,’ the man said, ‘that’s the difference between my employer and you. He takes the trouble to know things, to know people. He’s a thousand miles away, and he knows more about your operation here than you do.’

‘What does he know?’ There was a slight tremble in Caldwell’s hands. Why would Franz be so interested in Caldwell’s territory? Unless he was planning some incursion, or to move in some new operator. Unless he thought Caldwell wasn’t his best bet any more…

‘Hunter,’ the gunman was saying. ‘He’s tough, but just how tough? I mean, that’s what we’ll find out tonight, isn’t it? If things go the way they’re supposed to.’

‘Nelly’s just a runt. Hunter won’t have any trouble with him.’

‘No?’ The man got right into Caldwell’s face. ‘What if I tell you something about Nelly?’

‘Such as?’ Caldwell’s voice nearly failed him.

‘His surname’s Hunter, you fucking idiot. He’s Johnny Hunter’s kid brother.’

Hunter was in the club, chain-smoking, eyes everywhere. He didn’t feel like dancing. The bass was like God’s heartbeat, the lights His eyes shining down across the little world. Hunter’s right knee was pounding, speed working its way to his fingertips and toes. He sat alone at the table, Panda not six feet away, just standing there so nobody’d bother his boss unless the boss wanted to be bothered. He hadn’t much left to sell. Not much at all.

His friends were whooping on the dance-floor, waving to him occasionally. They probably thought he was cool, sitting the dances out, smoking his smokes. He rattled a cube of ice into his mouth and crunched down on it. Another drink replaced the empty glass. Fast service in the club, because he owned thirty per cent. Thirty per cent of all of it. But he knew that fifty-one was the only percentage that mattered.

Fifty-one meant control.

He was waiting for Nelly, hoping not to see him, knowing he’d come here eventually. Hunter could have gone elsewhere, but what did it matter? Nelly would always find him. It was like the guy had a homing instinct.

Nelly: young and whacked out and terminally stupid.

Hunter had always tried to keep things between them strictly business. He could have refused to deal with Nelly, but then Nelly would have gone elsewhere, maybe gotten into worse trouble. But Hunter had never done him any favours. No dope better than anyone else was getting; no discounts for family.

Strictly business.

Only tonight, Nelly was going to get better dope. He was going to get the best stuff going. Caldwell’s orders.

‘Hey, Hunter!’ A girl he knew: short skirt, any tighter and you’d have to call it skin. Waving him on to the floor. He waved back in the negative. She blew him a kiss anyway. Margo and Juliet were off somewhere: maybe at the ladies’, or whisked away by other raptors. They were meat, the window-dressing in a butcher’s shop. Hunter didn’t give a fuck about them.

He didn’t give a fuck about anyone but himself. Number One. Looking out for.

Ah, shit, Nelly…

Hunter punched the table with his fist. It was all about the future, about Nelly’s versus his. No contest, was it? Nelly all fucked over anyway, while Hunter was just starting out. There was never going to be any contest. But all the same, he hoped the crowds outside, the swoop and swirl of this millennial midnight, would keep Nelly away. Maybe the tide would wash him down on to Princes Street, and he’d score there. Or maybe the cops would grab him, spot him at last for the one they wanted. Which was just what Caldwell didn’t want. No telling who Nelly would grass up. No telling where the trail would lead. So instead there was to be a deal. There was to be the purest heroin going, stuff that would stop your heart dead.

Caldwell’s orders. And Caldwell was acting on orders, too. And the person above Caldwell – Hunter had the idea it was some German or Dutch guy – that was who Hunter had to impress. Because he had to make a name for himself pronto, had to get ahead of the game, had to stake his place as Caldwell’s replacement.

Had to make contact.

Had to make good.

‘Yo!’

His chest tightened. Lanky and dripping sweat, unlikely ever to be let in by the bouncers if they didn’t know he was Hunter’s brother, here came Nelly, nodding towards Panda, sliding into the booth and tipping the remains of someone’s lager down his neck.

‘Thought I was never going to find you, man.’

Hunter gazed at his brother, couldn’t find any words.

‘Happy New Year, ’n’ ’at,’ Nelly said.

‘It’s not midnight yet. Another couple of minutes.’

‘Oh, right.’ Nelly nodding, not really giving a toss about any of this conversation, or any emotions his brother might be feeling. Only needing a taste.

‘Dosh,’ Nelly said, sliding the money across.

‘You know the score, Nelly. Panda takes care of that.’

Panda: standing there with one packet in his pocket exclusively for Nelly. Hunter’s orders. And when Nelly OD’d, Panda would know Hunter had balls.

Everyone would know. Nobody’d ever try to screw him. The word would be made flesh. Suicide a small price to pay for that big bright future.

Nelly was already thinking of getting to his feet. He had no business now with Hunter. His business, his most urgent and necessary business, was with Panda. But he had to make a bit more conversation, pretend he’d a bit more respect for Hunter than was the case.

‘Eh, man, just to say…’ Nelly twitched. ‘Like, sorry about the kid.’

‘Are you?’

‘Christ, man, how was I to know he’d take the whole shot? I didn’t know he was a virgin.’

‘But you sold him your methadone, right?’

‘Needed the dosh, man.’

‘And he was fourteen?’

Nelly twitched again. ‘It’s going to be cool though? I mean, the police and the newspapers are going apeshit looking for-’

‘I’ve got friends, Nelly. They’ll take care of it.’

Nelly’s face brightened. ‘You’re the best, Johnny.’ On his feet now. ‘Don’t let any of the bastards tell you different.’

Hunter got up. They hugged, wished one another Happy New Year as the siren in the club sounded, releasing balloons. The DJ put on ‘Auld Lang Syne’, and it was like they were kids again, getting to stay up late this one night of the year, ginger cordial and madeira cake. Sneaking into the kitchen for swigs of whisky and brandy, giggling at each new pleasure revealed to them.

And when Hunter let his brother go, and watched him put an arm around Panda, and saw them vanish into the haze in front of his eyes, he felt a stab of terror for what he would have to become in this new millennium, and for all the things he would do, and the pleasures he would of necessity forgo.

Inspector John Rebus placed the letters on his desk.

There were three of them. Small, plain white envelopes, locally franked, the same name and address printed on each in a careful hand. The name was K. Leighton. Rebus looked up from the envelopes to the man sitting on the other side of the desk. He was in his forties, frail-looking and restless. He had started talking the moment he’d entered Rebus’s office, and didn’t seem inclined to stop.

‘The first one arrived on Tuesday, last Tuesday. A crank, I thought, some sort of malicious joke. Not that I could think of anyone who might do that sort of thing.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘My neighbours over the back from me… well, we don’t always see eye to eye, but they wouldn’t resort to this.’ His eyes glanced up towards Rebus for a second. ‘Would they?’

‘You tell me, Mr Leighton.’

As soon as he’d said this, Rebus regretted the choice of words. Undoubtedly, Kenneth Leighton would tell him. Rebus opened the first envelope’s flap, extracted the sheet of writing-paper and unfolded it. He did the same with the second and third letters and laid all three before him.