Jack had a new big bruise on the side of his jaw that Linda and Neil's sister Joanne had managed to hide to an extent with some makeup from the Starlight stage box. His face still ached, and he had to chew on the other side of his mouth until the loose molar settled back in. It hurt, but he knew he deserved it.
He'd arrived in Glasgow a bare seventeen minutes after they had lashed the rolled up tarpaulin that contained the ponderous body of Wiggy Foley on top of an old container in the truck park where it couldn't be seen by anybody passing by, or dug up by the local dogs. Tam Bowie was waiting for him with the spare helmet and the Dragstar engine ticking over.
"You got out okay? How's your Mike?"
"He's okay, a bit of a sore face but it went like clockwork. In, out, shake it all about." His own hands were still trembling just a little as he came down in the aftermath.
"Apart from this," Jed said. He and Donny were hauling the tarpaulin from the side, while Ed fixed the covering back on the frame. Young Michael sat on the footplate, looking pale and lost.
"What's that?"
"You mean who."
Tam pulled back a step. "What's going on?"
"That scumbag Foley. He came after us."
"And what happened?"
"He's snuffed it."
"Dead? You killed him? You killed Wiggy Foley?" Tam's face was a picture of incredulity.
"No," Ed said. He turned from the tanker, shaking his head. He was still covered in drying mud and old leaves. "He killed himself, that's what he did. He came after us with a knife and fell off the truck. He must have broke his neck."
"He was stuck up a tree," Donny said. "Like a big baldy gorilla."
"What are you going to do with him?"
"Just stash him for now," Jack said. "He's not joining our gang."
They had to get moving, then and there. Jack pulled on the windproof one-piece and the helmet. He came across to Mike and grabbed him round the shoulder in a one armed big brother hug, holding him tight to let his own anger and fear drain away now that he was safe.
"Mike, you go with Ed and Donny, okay? Get Sandy to take you to casualty right away to get that face seen to, no delay at all, got that? He knows what to do. Tell Mam, not a word to a soul, no matter who it is. And for God's sake, don't tell her about this, okay?"
Michael nodded silently, still struggling to cope with his first taste of violent death. Jack swung a leg over the pillion and they were gone through the mesh gates. Tam slowed at the lights down on Castle Street, plugged the comms lead into the helmet.
"Speed of light, Tam," Jack said. "Warp factor nine. I'm the only name they'll come after."
Tam sat back, throttled up and in five minutes he was across the big span of the bridge beyond Barloan Harbour, onto the motorway and nosing up from ninety. Somewhere beyond Glasgow Airport, a patrol picked them up and started flashing blue. Tam didn't twitch. He gave it a twist, reached a hundred and ten until he was far enough round the bend, was up the exit and through the Clyde Tunnel and gone before they knew what was what. Jack took the samsonite pannier into the bathroom in Starbucks and three minutes later he came out in the Armani suit carrying the serious-business briefcase. He checked the wallet inside, made sure he had the return train ticket Tam had bought in the morning.
Kerrigan Deane shook him by the hand.
"Sorry I'm late," Jack said, checking his watch. "The traffic gets worse."
"Tell me about it," Kerrigan Deane said. He led Jack into his plush office. "Just a couple of papers for you to sign. Everything go well at Dunvegan?"
"I'll know by tomorrow," Jack told him. He had a couple of people to talk to and he knew it wasn't going to be easy.
Kate Delaney smacked her face against the glass and reeled out of the revolving door into the arms of the concierge. The thud rattled the pane in its metal frame. She had pushed her way inside just at the same instant that Jack was coming out and when she did a double take she forgot where she was and stopped dead. The door kept right on spinning and catapulted her into the atrium
Jack heard the jarring crack and saw the motion just as he stepped out into the street. He turned, peered through against his own reflection and saw Kate steadying herself against the reception desk.
For a moment he was caught in a dilemma. He'd stayed out of her way since the day in the lane when she'd hooked him a fast one. There had been too much to do and he didn't have enough excuses that she wouldn't see right through. Her eyes were closed and her free hand was rubbing at her cheek and temple where the toughened glass had connected. He needed to be gone, but he couldn't just leave her like that.
Then she opened her eyes, saw him, and that ended the debate. He pushed through the revolving door again.
"I suppose that was revenge," she said. Tears were silvering her eyes, and she blinked them back to prevent them spilling over.
"I never even saw you," he protested. "Are you all right?"
"Sure I'm all right. You just broke my damn jaw." She knew it had been her own fault for stopping. He put an arm round her, took her weight against himself. She sniffed and turned her head away, not wanting him to see the tear if it got loose.
She dabbed at her cheek. "My head's ringing like a bell."
"You shouldn't have stopped," he said.
"Tell me something I don't know. I should have kept right on walking, right?"
He took the hit. "I suppose so."
She pulled away from him, kept a hand to her cheek. The skin under her fingers was swelling nicely. In a couple of hours she'd be still pretty but lop-sided..
"So this is what it's all been about," she said, looking him up and down. "Armani labels from head to toe?"
There was no answer to that.
"Suits you, Jack. I just hope the rest of your ex-workmates can afford such nice gear."
He darted a concerned look at the concierge before she kept talking.
"You want a coffee?"
"I've got an appointment," she said, finally forcing the tear back. "But I'm early."
"Come on," he put a hand behind her back and steered her towards the doors again. The concierge came forward and opened the side door for them.
"Just to be on the safe side, Mr Gabriel," he said.
He winced, kept on moving until he got across to Starbucks again. Tam was long gone.
"So you got a designer suit and tie," she said. "And a poncy briefcase. Was it worth it?"
He shrugged. The girl took the order and she waited until they were alone again in the corner.
"You might as well have got it covered in arrows."
"They let you wear denims in Barlinnie," he threw back.
"Maybe they'll let you finish your course. Then you can start your career the week before you retire. So what brings you up here? Are you following me?"
"If I had, I'd have been behind you, not coming out the door you were coming in."
"So who were you seeing? Your criminal buddies?"
He didn't say. He knew who she'd been going to meet.
"Just a man. Doing some business."
"That's what they call it in the movies. There are other ways to describe it."
He sat back. Her face was swelling on one side. There was no point in arguing with her. She still felt betrayed and let down, and there was nothing he could do about that. He hadn't meant to expose her to any danger, and he wasn't going to risk any more. The best he could do would be just to take the punches and wait until it stopped. Maybe duck a few.
"How goes your fight?"
She looked up. "What's it to you?"
"I'm interested."
"Oh, you mean the big battle against Sproat and his cohorts. The fight to save the river harbour and all the jobs? The fight that you pretended to be interested in before, when you were just planning to get into the robbery business?"
One, two, three, hard and fast, like Ed's punches and he was on the ropes. He felt like going down and staying there for a mandatory eight count. He put his head in his hands, rubbed his temples. She paused, running out of steam and fire.
"If you must know, we're going to win. It's going to be all over the Gazette tomorrow. Blair Bryden said he'll put it on the front."
The girl arrived with the coffees, gave Jack and his fine suit a blatant once-over. He took a sip of cappuccino. Kate didn't know anything about what had happened today, but he'd bet five to one that the scene in Ferguson's yard would knock everything else off the front. Gunplay in the home town and a river of stolen whisky, that was the new story. That was news. A fresh court action would make it somewhere after page six.
"What's that?"
"We've won the interdict, thanks to our guardian angel. No thanks to some folk we could mention, including you and your wild bunch."
He ignored that. He'd just have to get used to rolling with them.
"Guardian Angel?"
"Somebody who believes in the cause. Somebody who is willing to put his money where his mouth is. He's set up a fighting fund to take it all the way. Kerrigan Deane, that's the lawyer I'm meeting today, he served a writ against Sproat that stops him demolishing the distillery and dumping into the harbour."
"So, does that mean it's over?"
"No. Sproat's people are applying to have the interdict lifted. It's probably going to end up in court. At least now we can consider putting up a fight."
"That could take months."
"It could take years."
Jack smiled. He knew all this.
"Mr Deane says we should now write to the developers to let them know about the legal problem, which might make them pull out of the deal. He's dug up some research that shows Sproat's family might never had clear title to the harbour, and even some of the land that's been reclaimed from the river."
Jack nodded, keeping his face straight. His uncle and the boat-club boys had spent many afternoons in the library archives digging through the old records. They had only been trying to save the harbour for the flotilla of little wrecks that took up their weekends, but they all had plenty of time on their hands and while none of them had a university education, they knew the tides and currents and how to avoid the sharp rocks. They had done a real job.
"Now the good Mr Sproat wants to speak to us. Amazing isn't it? Last week we were a bunch of agitators and anarchists. He refused even to acknowledge our letters. Now he's invited us down for talks."
"Good for you," Jack said, and he meant it. Maybe she had got some leverage, but he knew that when Kate Delaney started to fight, she wouldn't stop until it was won or lost. She'd give Sproat a real run for his money.
She looked at her watch.
"Time for me to go. What are you going to do?"
"This and that," he said.
"You're learning to be evasive, Jack Lorne. I really liked the straight version."
"Things happen," he said, aware of how lame it sounded.
"Indeed they do. Maybe you shouldn't let them."
He held the door open as they walked out into the thin rain. The bruise was beginning to colour now, titian, like her hair.
He walked her across the street, weaving through the stalled traffic and stood on the pavement while she mounted the steps. She turned, paused, came back down.
"Two things I'd like to know," she said.
"What's that?"
"Why did the doorman call you Mr Gabriel?"
He felt colour flush into his face.
"Must have the wrong man," he said quickly. "Mistaken identity."
She stared up, held his eyes, measuring that response and finding it wanting. She was sharp.
"And what on earth have you done to your hair?"
Marjory Burns caught him on the mobile just as he came out of the railway station, only three hundred yards from where the scene-of-crime boys had taped off Ferguson's yard. A thin smell of whisky still hung about in the soft, damp air.
Jack backed in under the railway bridge out of the misty rain. The scramble over the wall and the crazy careering along the old Quarry Road out of town, that seemed long ago and far away.
"Mr Gabriel?" He knew she was being overheard. "I have Mr Sproat for you."
He pulled out and round the corner, away from the traffic. There was a little nook of a shelter where the porters used to keep their trolleys in the old days, and he squeezed in there for privacy.
"Hello?"
"Michael? Caught you at last, old boy. Alistair here." Sproat was trying to sound expansive, casual, but Jack knew he'd be having a severe case of the squitters after the police found what he'd left behind in the lorry glove box.
"Hi there, how is business?" He remembered the Irish accent just on time.
"Frankly Michael, it's just bloody awful. Some of that Glen Murroch turned up today. Seems a bunch of local idiots stole it, but they're trying to implicate me in the whole mess. Me? Can you imagine that?
Jack almost chuckled, listening to Sproat's outrage. He'd been involved in scamming the customs, probably all his life, if the flash car and the yacht down on the marina were anything to go by. Maybe Sproat didn't interpret that as theft.
"They found some lading documents. Obvious forgeries, of course, but they've started a whole inventory of the stock. I just had to touch base with you to warn you."
"Warn me of what?"
"The police and customs will want to go over the Dunvegan delivery, just to check the amounts against the files."
"That's no problem. They can come and have a look if they like."
"Good man. And I've got these Charter protesters all over me. You know they hired a lawyer and slapped an interdict on me? Me! I'm going to talk to them this afternoon, see if I can palm them off. If I don't get reclaiming the land, then the development deal will be down the river and I'll be up the sewage creek sans paddle."
Jack could heard the rising panic in Sproat's voice. His family had cruised it for generations, and according to his uncle, they'd been running unmatured whisky across the Atlantic way back in the twenties during the prohibition days. This was probably the first time in his life that Sproat had been really worried.
"Two things, Michael. Your associate, Mr D'Angeli, he said something about sorting these people out. If I can stall them for a while, maybe he can do something for me? I really need some help on this one."
Jack paused, bit his lip, wondering if the time was right.
"Well, there's a bit of a problem there. It's Mr D'Angeli. He's not with us any more."
"Not with you? What, did he get fired? He quit?"
"No. I mean he's not with us any more. He's...ah....he's gone."
"You mean he's..."
"Yes," Jack broke in. "There was a bit of a run in with his....um, associates. They sort of voted him out. Permanently. But don't worry, I'll make sure they don't know about you."
"Know about me?" Sproat's voice went up a whole octave. "What is there to know?"
"They know Mr D'Angeli was making a major purchase. If they thought there was anything untoward about the deal, maybe they'd think they could put some pressure on you. I know them. It wouldn't be nice."
He had to put a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing.
"Pressure, what pressure?" He was all questions now.
"Don't worry about it. It's all there and documented. We got the two hundred barrels, average thirty gallons. Six thousand in total. And you've had the five K up front."
"What are you talking about? It was two hundred at fifty five gallons per cask. That's eleven thousand gallons."
Jack paused again.
"No Alistair, that can't be right. I've got the paperwork which tells me and everybody else that I bought six thousand. All the barrels were carrying light. Must have been evaporation or something. What do you call it, the Angels Share?"
There was a silence at the other end of the line. Jack could almost hear the workings in Sproat's brain. The cogs reached the end of their travel and a cold realisation began to dawn.
"You can't do this to me." Sproat's voice had a cold shiver in it, as if he'd been sitting on ice all morning and big cracks were starting to spread out from under.
"Do what, Alistair? You signed the paper."
"I'll have the law on you, you slimy shit, you and your greasy Italian hoods."
"Sure, Alistair. You go tell them you were selling short. Tell you another thing, you only saw half the paperwork. I've got the other half. It shows the amount that went through the spirit safe when those barrels were first filled and marked. Mr D'Angeli, he had a lot of contacts, God bless his dear departed soul. Don't go checking the computer records, because they've all been put back to the original versions, and I've got a sworn affidavit that details exactly what you were up to. You raise any waves and you have to tell the customs why you've been ripping them off."
"You.....you...." Sproat sounded as if he was strangling. "You fucking bastard."
"Very possibly," Jack said, agreeably. "You could come and take the barrels back as they are now, if you like. Oh, no, sorry Alistair. There's a problem about that too. With the unfortunate Mr D'Angeli's disappearance, his partnership's been wound up. Having sold on the latest delivery from yourselves, there don't seem to be any assets. So you really can't come to collect, can you? Your former employees bought them in good faith, and paid good money too. All receipted. That seems to have gone with Mr D'Angeli, wherever he is. I'm afraid this really hasn't been your day."
He paused for a moment, savouring this. "In fact, I'd go as far as to say, you've had your day."
Sproat made spluttering sounds. Jack allowed himself a hard smile. He remembered Andy Kerr's face when he told the men they were laid off, and he remembered how Sproat had brazenly told his own people they'd be out of work. No matter what happened from now, he could take some satisfaction on hearing Sproat losing it.
"And as for those protesters who are soon to haul your well tanned arse into court, well, you're big enough to take them on yourself. They'll skin you. Mr D'Angeli has checked out beyond reach, and now, as far as you're concerned, so have I. And I have to say, it's been a real pleasure doing business. Pip-pip, old boy."
He hit the clear button on his cloned phone, dropped it to the hard tiles of the old railway room and stamped down with his heel. He put all his weight into it. The mobile crunched and scattered, the last contact with Sproat severed.
He went home first to get changed and get half an hour's sleep before he went round to Andy Kerr's house. Andy lived on the far side of Drymains and Jack had been there many a time before, in pleasanter days. Sylvia Kerr was taking the boys to the scouts.
"He's in the garden," she said, hustling the kids into the car. "Just go right round."
Sylvia flashed him a smile that she tried to make bright, but he could see the strain on her face from the events of the past few weeks. He took a big breath and pushed the gate.
"If you've come for your job, I'd love to help, Jake." He poured them both a cold beer. "But it looks like everybody's going to go."
"What's the score on the lease?"
"Sproat's squeezing my balls so tight my eyes are watering. I'm really sorry I had to lay you off, but I did my best. Billy skimming from the bottom and then Scotmilk forcing me to cut to the bone on the Co-op contract, they were both backbreakers."
Andy looked as if he hadn't smiled in months. His mouth was turned down at the edges, and last year's laughter-lines had turned into deep, depressed furrows.
"And that Angus Baxter, he's run me through the grinder and back again. I hear they picked somebody up for the whisky this morning. There was a bit of a shoot-out in the east end, so it said on the radio. I hope the bastards squeal like pigs."
Jack bit his lip. This was not going to be easy.
"I've got some news for you. Maybe it'll cheer you up."
"It would have to be really good," Andy said. Jack hadn't touched the beer. Andy told him to drink it while it was going.
"I heard Sproat's in big trouble."
"Couldn't happen to a nicer wanker. But who isn't in trouble?" He pointed at his fine sandstone house. "I'm going to have to put this place on the market. Want to buy it?"
Jack laughed drily. "With what you paid me? That's a good one."
"So what about Sproat, may that creep rot and burn."
"He won't get the mall deal. He's had a writ slapped on him that stops him demolishing and dumping into the harbour. It'll be tied up in court for years. He can't reclaim the land, so the mall doesn't get built. And that puts him in a whole lot of trouble."
"Too late for me."
"Well," Jack said. "Not necessarily so." He prepared himself.
"There's a couple of other things I can't tell you about, but he's in a real heap of trouble."
"Nice to have company," Andy said. "I'm in so deep I'm on tip-toe."
"What I mean is, he's getting very strapped for cash."
"How do you know?"
"Trust me. I've been working on it. Anyway, I've got some friends who are looking for business. They want to know if you're up for a deal."
"What kind of a deal?" Andy bent forward over the garden table.
"Remember I told you about that cheese business that went flat up on Skye?"
"Sure. I told you it was too far away."
"Well, they've got five hundred head of jerseys that they're sending to slaughter unless they find a market for the milk and cream. Scotmilk won't touch it because of the distance."
"That's the problem."
"I've worked out something that might just come together. If they were to get the milk to you, could you process it for them?"
"What do they want, cream? Pasteurised, UHT? I don't have the transport, remember."
"They've got wheels. You can work the percentage between you."
Andy pushed back and sized him up.
"What's the score Jack? You've only been out of work a couple of weeks."
Jack met his look. He remembered his uncle playing with Sproat.
"I'm going to make you an offer you won't understand. How do you fancy getting into the drink business?"
"I am in the drink business. For about a month, anyway."
"No, I mean real drink."
It was time to put the cards on the table. "Listen to this, I've done a deal with some friends of mine up there. In fact, what we've done is, well, we've gone and bought a distillery."
"You bought a distillery? You? Come on Jake, don't yank it. Where would you get the cash?"
"I didn't need cash, just a promise. That's how it works, only I never knew it before. Anyway, it's only a wee place, falling apart, but it makes malt and it's got plenty of storage. But best of all is, along with this distillery comes a licence to make spirits. That's a licence to print your own banknotes if you use it right. And it's mine."
Andy's face was a picture of incredulity. Jack pushed on regardless.
"Anyway, here's where you come in. You've got the plant and the bottling line. I've got somebody working on a grant that would cover the transport costs back and forth, and some development dough for tooling up."
"But I won't have the premises. Sproat's rent is through the roof."
"Don't you worry about Sproat. Anyway, you sign up and no matter what happens, you can work a deal or relocate, but I don't think you'll have to move."
Andy shook his head, and Jack could see the faint ray of new hope tussle with old despair.
"If I was to change production, I'd need a cash-flow and I'm strapped Jake. The bank's pushed me so far out, they only touch me with a billhook. The pointy end."
"You won't need the bank. I'll fix you up with some rolling credit. They've got the transport. They deliver and you get paid per processed load. It's guaranteed. Look, there's a herd of Jerseys up on that farm with tits like full bagpipes making them buckle at the knees. We're talking fifty percent cream. Champion grass munchers. And the farmer, he's desperate for the business too or his herd goes down for dog-meat. You're teetering on the edge. The distillery needs a supply. It's like a triangle. Each side supports the other."
"Jeez, Jake, this is all a bit sudden. How did you get into all this?"
Andy picked up the beer and downed it in a single long swallow. He put the glass down and then groaned. He put both hands up against his forehead and rocked back and forth. For a moment Jack though he had burst into tears.
"What's the matter?"
"Ice cream headache. I drank it too fast."
Jack exploded with laughter in a sudden release of tension.
"You scared me there. I though you were having a stroke."
Andy shook his head as if to clear it.
"I've thought that myself this past couple of weeks. Listen Jake, I have to tell you, Angus Baxter thinks I'm involved in some scam over these tankers. I'm not out of the woods yet."
"Don't worry about that. Everything's going to be okay. You were going to give them up, weren't you? They just repossessed them a day early. They'll turn up, I'm certain about that."
Andy Kerr froze on the point of leaning forward.
"How did you know that?"
"Know what?"
"They were repossessed. Nobody knew that. Just what is going on?"
"Nothing you need to know about Andy. Everything's going to be okay. If we've stopped Sproat in his tracks, he can't sell, and the only reason he hiked your rent was to get you out. If he can't sell, he's stuck for cash and he can't afford to lose you as a tenant. He's in the bag."
"You've got it all figured out Jake," Andy said, but his tone was all full of gravel.
"I hoped if I could bring you a deal, you could keep the boys on."
Andy stared unblinking. "Jake, what happened to my tankers?"
Jack met him eye to eye again.
"You don't want to know."
"Jake. I'm asking you again. What the fuck happened to my tankers."
"Well, if it's between you and me. I really have to trust you on this." Jack made it a question.
"Between us then. You and me. Just tell me."
"We had to borrow them, Andy."
He never saw the punch. One minute he was eye to eye with Andy Kerr and the next he was right out of the garden chair and flat on his back. The crash of his landing socked all the air out of his lungs and little golden stars spangled in peripheral vision.
Andy was across the table, knocking it on its edge. The beer glass spun away and smashed against a small grinning gnome. He grabbed Jack's collar with one hand and swung another roundhouse. Jack just had time to block it and almost dislocated a thumb.
"You nearly put me in the fucking jail. Jesus! I've been hauled in there and that big Baxter's put me right through the wringer and everybody's been pointing the finger." He swung again, clipped Jack on the chin and Jack didn't have the heart or the urge to fight back. He knew he had this coming.
"I've had the house on the market and Sylvia going half demented and people round to put a price on the plant." Andy's voice was rising. "All because you and a bunch of loonies think they're Ronnie fucking Biggs!"
He swung again and Jack caught his hand, held it in a tight grip, taking the force out of the blow and preventing Andy from drawing back. They lay on the glass, straining, faces almost touching, both of them breathing hard. Finally Jack felt the strength go out of him. He eased himself out and rolled away. Andy got up, his anger part spent in the action.
"Fuck." A long exhale.
"Okay. You're right. I deserved that. But it's done and it's almost over, and I know you won't believe this, but we had to do it, so we could get the rest of the stuff in place. You were always going to be part of the deal, but you couldn't know about it. You're no crook. You'd never have gone for it. But if that's out of your system, and you won't start hooking and jabbing again, we can talk. You were screwed anyway, you told me that yourself. This is a chance to get unscrewed. You don't need tankers any more, so when they turn up, they'll be repossessed again, and if they don't, the insurance will cough. All you have to do is take delivery from Skye and convert the supply."
"Into what?"
"Condensed milk."
"The Carnation stuff? There's no market for that."
"Sure there is. I can guarantee it. So do you want the business?"
"What's the catch?"
"No catch. You and me become partners. We save the dairy, and we make a few bucks. No, we make a lot of bucks."
Jack held out his hand. Andy looked at it for so long that Jack almost drew it back again.
Finally he reached out and took it.
"You've turned out a right devious bastard, Jack Lorne."
It was after seven by the time he got home and he felt as if he'd been on his feet for a fortnight. He went straight into the shower to rinse off the grime of a long day, changed and came downstairs. His mother came in from the garden and as soon as she saw him she threw her arms around him and hugged him so tight he felt his ribs creak.
"Mike okay?"
"He's fine." She put a finger to his cheek. "He's better off than you. What happened to your face? No, don't tell me. Today's going to be a total blank from now on."
He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Andy Kerr was no slouch. The bruise was already turning purple and swelling outwards..
"There's somebody here to see you," Alice said.
"Who's that?" For a moment his belly clenched tight. He didn't need any more surprises.
"She's out in the garden. Wants to talk to you."
"If you're going to start punching at me again, I've already had my quota for the day."
Kate Delaney looked up at him, saw the bruise that matched the swelling on her own cheek, and despite the ache, she couldn't keep the smile off her face.
Kerrigan Deane had been all business, but by the time she got to talk to him, Kate's thoughts were all over the place.
She'd gone through the revolving door again, with the last question still unanswered. The concierge pressed for the lift and she rummaged in her bag for the papers the lawyer had sent to her. She was still doing that when she walked through the open doorway, attention elsewhere, and stumbled straight into Deane's secretary who was coming in the opposite direction, equally preoccupied.
Papers fountained and scattered all over the expensive carpet, while Kate and the other girl held on to each other to save from falling, both of them apologising. They bent simultaneously to pick up the strewn papers, scooping at random.
She was on her knees, a sheaf of documents in one hand, picking up another, when Jack Lorne's name seemed to jumpe out of a mass of type into sharp focus.
...just to confirm the legal opinion is that there is a prima facie case for common ownership of the harbour at Aitkenbar Distillery. From the research studies you supplied, our own investigations have been unable to discover any clear private title to the harbour basin. Such title is not included in the Sproat family holdings or within the aegis of Aitkenbar Distillery.
Consequently we are preparing a writ for interdict which will be served under the auspices of the Charter 1315 organisation. We are confident this action will succeed and that attempts to have it lifted will be denied. It is likely that the other party will seek an action of declarator, to get a formal ruling on ownership, which, whether it succeeds or not
and it is our considered opinion is that it will not - will lead to an extensive delay. Ms Delaney will, of course, be kept apprised of developments.
As you requested, details of costs will be forwarded to you as they arise. We thank you for the initial retaining fee.
Kerrigan Deane's flourish of a signature was jet black below the typeface. Above it Jack's name stood out in bold. The address below it said: c/o Bruce, Thornbank Cottage.
Kate knelt on the carpet while the other girl scrambled for the remainder of the papers. It was only when the type began to waver in her vision that she remembered to breathe again.
Damn you Jack Lorne. How the hell did you manage this?
She got up and came towards him.
"No. I'm not going to start punching, idiot. Though I really should, for the catalogue of bloody lies you've told me."
"I only told you one." He looked at her warily. Her last hook had caught him on the same cheek that Andy Kerr had cracked. A third punch would be too many. But she reached out and took both of his hands in hers.
"You put Kerrigan Deane up to it." A statement, not a question.
"He told you that?" A sear of indignation flared.
"No, he's a total professional," she said, squeezing his fingers. "I asked him, but he wouldn't say a thing. I had an accident and knocked some papers out of his secretary's hand. Your name was on some of them. It wasn't her fault or his."
He returned her gaze, saying nothing.
"Well?"
"You really should watch where you're going," he finally said."
"And so should you by the looks of it." She pulled him towards the bench where his mother liked to sit and read on hot days. He caught Alice out of the corner of his eye, just passing the kitchen window. She flashed him a mother's smile. He let himself sit.
"You paid Mr Deane to start the action, and you set me up for it."
"I'm saying nothing until I see my lawyer."
She laughed. "You really are an idiot, Jack Lorne. Why didn't you tell me?"
"You didn't need to know. You shouldn't know now. It could get dangerous."
"How did you do it?"
"Leverage."
"I don't understand." The sun was forcing its way through the thin clouds, low rays glinting copper on her hair.
"Aristotle's the man. He said if he had a long enough lever and a place to wedge it, he could move the world. It turns out that leverage is what the Sproats and their likes have had all this time. It's time we had a turn. And a crowbar helps."
"You're talking in riddles."
"I told you before. People like Sproat, they just push too far. Everybody gets used to it and they take, take, take. They get so used to taking that they don't know what the real world's all about. They think it's their god-given right, but it's not. Sproat never had it tough and he never had to work and all he's ever learned to do is use money his daddy earned and fiddle the system."
"Is this a lecture?"
"It's a lesson it took me long enough to suss. Everybody was talking about what was happening to them, what was being done to them. but words mean nothing. Action is the only thing. Doing. That's the only thing."
He paused, trying to rein himself in, but he was still hyped from everything that had happened and couldn't put a brake on it.
"Sproat doesn't realise that it goes both ways, and now he's finding out what it's like to be under the gun. You get enough people angry and one of these days they'll all gang up on you and you won't have anybody to back you up. That is where Sproat is. His arse will be nipping, believe me."
"Nice picture," she couldn't keep the smile away. "And so eloquently put."
"And the higher up they are, the bigger the splat they make when they hit. Sproat's swaying on his feet when he should be down and taking a long count. He's going to hit like a comet. A blaze of glory."
"The last one that hit wiped out the dinosaurs."
"That's a mighty metaphor, Kate. Those dinosaurs had their chance. With them gone, it gave all the little creatures a start."
"You are one damn smartarse, Jack Lorne. You've always got the smart answer. Always have to have the last word, don't you?"
"Does that mean I'm forgiven for the Armani?"
"Jack. You're a bastard, pure and simple. But I think I love the hell out of you."
"You what?" He wasn't sure he'd heard that.
"You heard what I said." She pulled on his hands again, eased him forward. "Thank those crazy boys for me, will you?"
"No. They don't know I've been spending money on a good cause, not yet. I haven't got round to telling them the whole plan."
"So what happens next?"
"I could tell you," he said, gripping her hands. "But then....then I'd have to kiss you."
"What did you say?"
"You heard what I said." He pulled and she bent into it. Both of them winced when their bruised cheeks collided, but the pain faded out in the middle of it.
"Two things," she said when they broke away.
"No surprise there."
"I think you look terrific in Armani."
"And the other?"
"If your hair goes like that in twenty years, I won't really mind."
Chapter 24: Full Proof Joe Donnelly 426 425