One Good Turn

43

“We’re going to buy a house?”

“Well, we’re going to look at houses,” Jackson said, rifling through the property newspaper. “We’re going to look at new de-velopments. Hatter Homes, you know them?”

“Real Homes for Real People. I looked at one but it was a bit shoddy. I don’t really like new housing estates.” He worried that Jackson might live in a new house on an estate and would be offended, but Jackson said, “Me neither. We’re not really looking to buy,” he added. Martin wondered if Jackson thought he was sim-ple. “We’re just going to pretend. I’m looking for someone. Watch out for that bus, Martin, I think it’s going to sideswipe you.”

“Sorry.”

“This is a lovely room, a real family room.”The woman showing them round the “Braecroft” show home hesitated. Martin supposed that he and Jackson didn’t look like a real family. The woman had a name badge that said MAGGIE and was dressed like a holiday rep in sky blue suit and multicolored cravat. Martin won-dered if he could get a name badge made-“William” or “Simon” or anything that wasn’t Martin. It could be a very easy way to change your identity.

“Lovely,” Jackson said in a deadpan kind of way. It was a north-facing room, all the light seemed to be funneled away from it. Martin felt an ache for his own home. Was he going to move back in when the police finished with it and spend the rest of his life living with the ghost of Richard Mott? Would he be able to sell it? Perhaps he could employ “Maggie,” he imagined her showing prospective buyers around, saying brightly, “This is the living room, a lovely room, a real family room, and this is the spot where Richard Mott had his brains splattered.”

“Of course, all sorts of people enjoy living in Hatter Homes,” “Maggie” said, “not just families. And what is a family anyway?” She frowned as if she were giving serious thought to this question. She seemed tense and overwound.

They traipsed after her up the stairs. “Are you on a tight budget?” she inquired over her shoulder. “Because the ‘Waverley’ is more roomy and has a bigger garden, not that there’s anything wrong with the ‘Braecroft,’ of course, it’s an ingenious use of space.”

“Deceptively small,” Jackson muttered.

“And this is the master bedroom,” “Maggie” announced proudly, “en suite, of course.”

Martin sat down on the bed. He wanted to lie down and go to sleep, but he supposed that wasn’t allowed.

“Well, thank you, Maggie,” Jackson said, making his way back down the stairs, “you’ve certainly given us a lot to think about.” She seemed to droop with disappointment, sensing a lost sale.

“Come into the Portakabin and I’ll just take a note of your name,” she said.

Outside the light seemed harsher. The estate was in a dip between two hills and had strange acoustics, you could hear the con-stant rumble of a motorway even though you could see no cars. A pot of dusty red geraniums sat next to the door of the Portakabin, the only sign of organic life. A JCB trundled past. The estate was still a building site even though half the houses were already occupied. There were some hard chairs in the Portakabin, and Martin took a seat on one of them. He was so tired.

“And you are?” “Maggie” said to Jackson.

“David Lastingham,” Jackson said promptly.

“And your partner?” she asked, looking at Martin.

“Alex Blake,” Martin said wearily. It was his name, it belonged to him in a way that he suspected David Lastingham didn’t belong to Jackson.

“And a contact phone number?” Jackson reeled off a number. Martin wondered if it was genuine.

“Oh, by the way,” Jackson said casually to “Maggie,” “I’m an old acquaintance of Terry Smith’s from way back, you don’t know where I can get hold of him, do you? It would be great to catch up.”

A look of distaste passed across “Maggie’s” face. “I’ve no idea where Terry is today.” A mobile started to ring, and she dug into her handbag and said, “Excuse me a minute,”and went outside. To Martin’s surprise Jackson leaped like a cat burglar over to the filing cabinet and started raking through it.

“I think that’s illegal,” Martin said.

“I think you’re right.”

“I thought you used to be a policeman.”

“I did.”

These were the kinds of circumstances that made Martin feel nervous, and he stood anxiously in the doorway and watched “Maggie” pacing around as she talked into her phone. She was having to raise her voice, apparently because of a poor signal, and stopped every few seconds to say, “Are you still there?” He heard her say, “He’s in Thurso, apparently. I know, I don’t believe it ei-ther. I think he’s abandoned me, after all his promises.” Her face seemed to collapse as she talked. She finished the call and dabbed at her eyes.

“She’s coming back!” Martin hissed at Jackson.

By the time she walked back into the Portakabin, her mask firmly back in place, Jackson was engrossed in a brochure con-taining photographs of the various Hatter Homes on offer. “They’re all so lovely,” he said, “I don’t see how I could possibly choose.” He sighed and shook his head. He wasn’t the least bit convincing. “Anyway,” he said, turning to Martin, “back to the Batmobile, Robin.”

“Here, I think,” Martin said, drawing to a halt in front of a pair of electronic gates that stood wide-open. They were in the Grange, at an address that Jackson had apparently stolen from Maggie’s filing cabinet. PROVIDENCE, a sign said on the gate.

“Who lives here?” Martin asked.

“Graham Hatter. Owner of Hatter Homes. He employs Ter-ence Smith, so I’m thinking that he might know his where-abouts.”

“And who’s Terence Smith?”

“It’s a long story, Martin.”

I’ve got time, Martin thought, but he didn’t say it. Time was the only thing he did have, nanosecond after nanosecond ticking down. “I’ll just stay here while you go in.” He yawned. He won-dered if the Irn-Bru cocktail that the so-called Paul Bradley had given him had permanently affected his metabolism in some way. One minute he was so edgy he was twitching, the next he was so tired he couldn’t keep his eyes open.

“Won’t be long,” Jackson said.

Martin looked through his glove compartment for something to read. All he could find was a wad of flyers for Richard’s show- miniature versions of his COMIC VIAGRA FOR THE MIND poster- that he must have left in there on Tuesday.

He closed his eyes and was just falling into a sickly doze when he suddenly heard a familiar, unmistakable tune. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up like bristles. The Robin Hood theme song wafted in through the open car window. His heart bumped against his chest wall. Richard Mott’s phone was ringing. In the street. Close by. Martin spun round looking for the source of the fugi-tive theme. A blue Honda had driven up and parked behind his own car. A blue Honda. A blue Honda? No, there were thousands of blue Hondas around, it wasn’t necessarily the one that belonged to the insane baseball-bat-wielding driver. The theme to Robin Hood started up again. Martin opened the door and stumbled out of his car. There was no sign of anyone. Then he spotted him, walking up the driveway of the Hatters’ house, the phone to his ear. It really was the Honda driver from Tuesday. The Honda driver had Richard Mott’s phone. How could that be, unless he had killed Richard Mott? And why would he kill Richard Mott- unless it was the Honda driver who had picked up his laptop, found his address, and come to Merchiston to kill Martin. Martin felt as if the blood had just left his body.

Martin was expecting him to ring the doorbell and announce himself in the usual way, but instead the Honda driver crossed the lawn and stood in front of the French windows. He finished his call and produced the baseball bat, again out of nowhere. He raised it high as if he were preparing to hit for the outfield, but instead he smashed it into the glass of the windows.