Page 77 of Savage Justice

“I always expect trouble.”

“You should have said. I could have packed a flame thrower and maybe a missile launcher.”

“Fuckwit,” he mutters.

I return to my scrutiny of the roiling waves. Today’s mission isn’t especially taxing, just a simple reminder of the rules and protocols of doing business in Inverness. It’s our territory, and though we welcome a healthy mixed economy, anyone wanting to do business on our streets has to pay for the privilege.

Albert Mulligan, pimp, fencer of stolen goods, and car thief extraordinaire, is no exception.

Mulligan has diversified in recent weeks, and despite our initial reservations has so far lived up to his promises as far as high-end cars are concerned. The first shipment of motors to Eastern Europe left Liverpool a few days ago, and he’s been paid the hundred grand he was after. If there are any remaining hard feelings after Tony broke his nose and dislocated his jaw, he hasn’t seen fit to raise them.

But today’s business doesn’t concern dodgy BMWs. It does concern the ‘rent’ of a hundred quid a month for every girl he puts out on our streets. In exchange, we provide a decent level of security, access to healthcare if it’s needed, and a place to do the business. The Mermaid can pass as a fairly respectable two-star hotel, but in reality it offers rooms by the hour, a convenient location just outside the city centre, and free condoms.

Mrs Ellison, the woman who oversees the premises for us, reports a lot of Mulligan’s girls using the place in the last couple of months, but the revenue from that particular little weasel has actually dropped to about half what it used to be. We suspect he’s got cocky and is underpaying us, or even paying protection to someone else.

Either way, it’s not happening. We need to find out what’s been going on and put a stop to it. A not-so-gentle word in Mulligan’s ear should do the trick.

We touch down in the car park of a pub we run in the suburbs and pile out into the SUV we keep tucked away behind the main bar. It’ll take us about twenty minutes to get to The Mermaid, which is where we arranged to meet with Mulligan.

I check my watch. “He’d better not keep us waiting,” I snarl. “I have shit to do.” Like grovelling to Molly, assuming she’s cooled down enough to listen to me by the time I get back.

“He wouldn’t dare,” Tony assures me. “He knows this isn’t a courtesy call.”

I subside into the passenger seat to watch the streets of Inverness go by. Britain’s most northerly city, it’s a place I normally enjoy visiting. I admire the architecture, sturdy and solid, the dark granite buildings, the narrow streets, and the bustling city centre which makes more than a passing nod to tourism and the worldwide fascination with the Loch Ness monster.

Should I pick up a stuffed Nessie for Noah while I’m here? And maybe a book for Lucy?

The charms of the city are lost on me today, and I’m glad when we pull up outside The Mermaid five minutes before the time we agreed with Mulligan. At least we can now abandon any pretence at small talk, not that Tony has been especially chatty.

“Is that his car?” I wonder, checking out the shabby Mitsubishi in the car park.

“Probably. He’ll want to convince us that trade is bad and he’s on his uppers.”

“Is he for real? He must know we know to the penny what he’s been earning these last few weeks as most of it comes from us.” Mulligan has been making good on his grand claims regarding the supply of high-end motors. “Right. Let’s get this done with.” I lead the way through the swing doors at the hotel entrance.

There’s no lobby to speak of. We don’t really need one. There’s just a sort of cubicle where Mrs Ellison hangs the keys to all the doors and from where she can keep a watchful eye on comings and goings. I march over and lean on the half door.

The cubicle is empty, apart from the rows of keys dangling from numbered hooks. They all seem to be there, suggesting none of the rooms are in use currently.

That strikes me as odd. This place is a goldmine usually, it’s always busy. I knock on the wooden surround. “Hey. Shop.”

There’s no answer from within the bowels of the hotel. No panting manageress comes trotting from within. Even more odd, since she knew we were coming and should be here to greet us.

I knock again, harder. And shout louder.

Still no response.

“What the fuck…?” Tony walks around the outside of the cubicle to reach the one room located here on the ground floor. This is Mrs Ellison’s tiny studio apartment, the only other place she spends her time when she’s not in her cubicle. He batters the door with the side of his fist. “Mrs Ellison? Agnes? Get your arse out here.”

Still no answer. He tries the door, and it opens.

We exchange a troubled glance. This isn’t right. She trusts no one and never leaves her door unlocked. Silently now, we both draw our weapons, and I cover him while he enters the apartment.

It’s basically one room with a tiny kitchenette and a shower room, so it doesn’t take long to find her. Agnes Ellison is in bed, her sightless eyes staring at the ceiling and her throat slit from one ear to the other. The blood soaking the bedclothes is still wet, and she’s not yet quite stiff.

Grim-faced, Tony assesses the scene. “I’d say about an hour. What do you think?”

I have to agree. Which means, whoever did this won’t be far away. Maybe they’re still here, even. “We need to get a clean-up team in. Let’s check the rooms first.”

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