A Coffin For Two

22

I called my pal Eddie just before lunchtime by his clock; by ours it was thirty-five minutes before we were expected to arrive for afternoon drinks with Shirley Gash.

Eddie is a creature of habit. He works in a big glass office in Edinburgh’s new financial district, each day in his working life taking hundreds of dispassionate decisions, any one of which, he knows, may result in some poor wee woman he has never met and never will meet being refused extended credit to buy a new washing machine, something which is probably essential if her six kids are to have clean clothes every day, or a new cooker, essential if their meals are to be cooked properly.

Eddie hates his job, but he does it anyway, because it’s a job, and because within his decision-making limits he is allowed to exercise a tiny element of his own judgement, which might sway the balance occasionally in the poor wee woman’s favour.

Like many guys in his position, Eddie has a safety valve. Every working day, he and four pals take a taxi along the Western Approach Road, past the brewery, to the Diggers, where each of them has two pints of McEwan’s eighty shilling ale, and a pie, for lunch. Actually, the Diggers isn’t called the Diggers, not officially. The name above the door is Athletic Arms, but it’s straight across the road from the Dalry Cemetery, thus …

I could picture Eddie, slipping on his jacket with an eye on the clock, cursing as the phone rang.

‘Two-one-four-three.’ He growled his extension number at me.

‘Eddie, hello. It’s Oz.’

‘Blackstone! Where the eff are you? I spoke to Gregor last night. He said you’d been in buying gold jewellery for this absolutely gorgeous big brunette, but he thought you were heading back to Spain.’

‘I was. I did. That’s where I am now.’

‘With the gorgeous big brunette, you lucky bastard?’

I coughed. ‘Aye, the weather’s lovely. A few clouds in the sky, temperature in the low seventies. Just about par for the course.’

‘I see,’ said Eddie. ‘Not with the gorgeous big brunette. So what can I do for you, you horny bastard, if it’s not a lift to the football you’re after?’

I glanced across the terrace. Prim was sat at the table, checking the faxes which she was about to send to our three potential clients. She gave me a quick grin.

‘That magic database of yours,’ I said to Eddie. ‘You’re forever boasting that it’s the best in the business.’

‘That’s right. All human life is here, my man. Even you. In fact I looked you up for fun this morning, after Gregor said he’d seen you. You seem to be doing very well.’

‘Pleased to hear it. Listen, I’ve got a name. Mr Ronald Starr — two Rs — 126 Glannefran Hill, Mold, Clwyd, Wales. I need info about him, if he’s in your computer.’

There was a pause at the other end of the line. ‘For fuck’s sake, Oz. Have you never heard of the Date Protection Act?’

‘Of course.’

‘Well …’

‘I don’t think it’s a problem.’

‘Hah! It’s a problem, all right. A major league problem. A go to jail problem.’

‘Not if the subject’s dead, surely.’

Eddie hesitated again. ‘I’m not sure about that, even. But this guy Starr, are you sure he’s dead?’

‘Either that or he’s got helluva thin over the last few months. Skeletal, even. Look, Eddie, I don’t want financial info. Only some background stuff: married or single, occupation, employer and when was the last time that any trace of him showed up in the system.’

A great exhalation of breath came down the phone line like a roar. ‘Christ, I don’t know, Oz.’

I sighed, as loudly as I could. ‘I hate to do this, Eddie, but d’you remember that time …’

‘… when my mother had that problem, and you had a word with someone. Aye, okay. Enough said. Look, you don’t want this just now, do you? Only the lads are waiting for me.’

‘No, of course not. But if you can give me a call from home tonight.’ I gave him my phone number.

‘Okay,’ said Eddie. ‘Around six o’clock, our time.’

‘Great. I’ll be here. Be clear, man, this squares us.’

There was a growl. ‘Too fuckin’ right it does, pal. Too fuckin’ right!’