The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 9 Part 9

You could see the jury loved John French. They'd have taken him home and sat him on the mantelpiece just for the sheer pleasure of listening to him and looking at him. He surfed the courtroom like a man riding on the crest of a wave of righteousness rather than a wave of whisky.

The prosecution didn't stand a chance. The jury went for the "not proven" verdict on the culpable homicide charge and Kirsty walked out of the court a free woman. It took some more work from Mr French, but eventually her lawyers got the kids back from Social Services and she moved back home. Everybody rallied round. I suppose ignoring what had happened to Kirsty kind of guilt-tripped us all into lending a helping hand. Better late than never, the minister pointed out one Sunday when he gave us his particular take on the Good Samaritan story. He was adamant that we should open our hearts and put our faith in G.o.d.

But here's the thing about people like John French. Like his wife said, he does deserve to be among good people. Because being ready to think the best of folk leaves you wide open to the ones that can't wait to take advantage. And there's one or two like that in Inverbiggin.

Take me, for example. I've been out of love with my husband for years. He's a coa.r.s.e, uncouth, ignorant pig. He's never dared to lift a hand to me, but he disgusts me. Worse still, he bores the living daylights out of me. When he walks in a room, he sucks the life out of it. There is one positive thing about my husband, though. His job comes with terrific death-in-service benefits. And then there's that lovely big insurance policy. Frankly, it'll be worth every penny I've spent on rare malts and exclusive single barrel vintages.

Because I've been planting the seeds for a while now. I used to do amateur dramatics years ago. I can play my part well and I can paint a bonny set of bruises on my back and my ribs. Good enough to fool a man whose vocation would never let him examine a woman's injuries too closely. I even got him to take some photos on my mobile phone. If the police examine them later, they won't be able to make out too much detail, which suits me just fine. And after all, there's precedent now. n.o.body would dare to doubt John French, not after the publicity Kirsty's case earned him.

Never mind putting my faith in G.o.d. Me, I'm putting my faith in John French and the ministry of whisky.

THE ART OF NEGOTIATION.

Chris Ewan.

SOMETIMES WHEN I meet a new man they like to guess what I do for a living. There are certain things they always begin with, such as model or actress or air hostess. Air hostess annoys the h.e.l.l out of me. Once, I asked a guy to explain his thinking and he pulled a face like he'd just snagged his ankle on a tripwire. It could have been worse. I could have told him the truth.

It's the same with my clients. My clients are all men. The ones I turn down are the types who can't handle the idea that I'm a woman. It's not a feminist crusade. Fact is, if my client can't trust me, I can't trust them. And in my line of work, trust is everything.

I had no need to ask the American in the white linen suit his business. He arranged for me to meet him in Cannes, the week of the film festival, and everything about him said he worked in the movie industry. Not just the linen suit, but the cream espadrilles and the white cotton shirt, the tan and the capped teeth and the hair plugs. He looked like money, but not the old kind. I had him pegged as a studio executive or a producer. His first words placed him a little lower down the evolutionary scale.

He said, "They didn't tell me you had ovaries."

I left my carry-on suitcase in the doorway. The apartment was empty of furniture. No curtains. Bare concrete floors. A pair of sliding gla.s.s doors led on to a balcony. Beyond the balcony was the ocean, nearer still La Croisette. Super yachts. Red carpets. Movie stars. Hangers-on.

He said, "Your fee is kinda high."

"I prefer it that way."

"They told me you'd negotiate."

"I never negotiate."

"They told me you'd consider it this time."

I returned to my suitcase, lifted it from the floor and shaped as if to leave.

"Jesus Christ." The client ran his hand through his hair. He favoured a style that had been popular during my teenage years. Centre-parting, long at the front, curling in over his eyes. "This is crazy."

I checked the time on my wrist.w.a.tch. Hitched my shoulders by way of response.

"How far did you fly to get here?" he asked. "Halfway around the world, right? West Coast, I heard. And you'd walk out just like that?"

"I never negotiate."

"All right, I get it. Jeez. Can't we at least discuss what I need?"

"Just so long as you understand that the fee is non-negotiable."

"I said I got it already."

I studied him for a moment, feeling tempted to leave anyway. But he was right, I had flown long haul. Not from the States. From Rio. But the principle was the same.

"Tell me about the job," I said, and managed to sound pleasant with it.

He licked his lip and glanced at the sliding gla.s.s doors, as if he was afraid we were under surveillance. He had no reason to be concerned. I wouldn't have been there if that was the case.

"If you're planning on wetting yourself, I'll be off," I told him.

"Just wait, OK? Lemme think a minute."

"One minute."

I tapped my toe on the floor, keeping time with his thoughts. Interrupting them, even. I didn't care. He had no need to think. He needed to act. To give me the green light.

"The gear you use is untraceable, right?" he asked.

"Completely."

"And this thing'll be contained?"

I tipped my head to one side. "Explain contained."

"Just his yacht. The people on it. Jesus. Can you do that?"

"If you want something clean, you should hire a sniper. If you require a statement, hire me."

The guy ran his hand through his hair again. "I guess I need a statement."

I nodded. "The blast radius will be minimal, but they tend to cram these yachts in pretty tight at this time of year. I can't control that. And you'll need to have the fee in my account by tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? That's not what I agreed."

I c.o.c.ked a hip and contemplated my nails. They were an immaculate fuchsia-pink. Perhaps it was time for something different. "Things change based on my a.s.sessment of the variables. You're a variable."

"Hey, come on. Be reasonable here."

"I'm being reasonable. Your fee hasn't increased."

The American threw his hands into the air, then clutched them to his head. He ran splayed fingers down over his face. "I guess we're really doing this thing, huh?"

"Looks that way."

Two days later, I arranged for my contact to route a call to the client. The call was safe for four minutes.

"My money," I began.

"I paid half."

"That's not what we discussed."

"Hey, it's like you said, things change. Finish the job and you'll get the rest."

"I told you this isn't a negotiation."

"Then you don't get paid."

I heard the tinkle of female laughter. The roar of a car engine. The drone of wheels on asphalt.

"Wait," I said. "Do you have me on speakerphone? Are there people with you?"

"Hey, take it easy."

"Christ's sake."

"These are my people. You can trust them."

"Hang up the phone."

"Hang up the phone? Listen lady, you're working for me now, OK, and I'll finish the call when I'm good and ready."

I pressed a b.u.t.ton on my laptop and killed the satellite link-up. I bet myself the twerp would call back in less than a day.

The twerp surprised me and waited thirty-six hours. I could hear the shuffle of waves on a beach. No laughter. No engine noise.

"We need to talk," he said, once my contact had re-routed his call.

"Fine," I told him. "You have four minutes."

"What, you have a hair appointment?"

My burgundy nail hovered over my mouse-pad. Count to ten, I told myself. Give him an opportunity to redeem himself.

"So the truth is I don't have all the money," he said.

"Then it's a shame my organization doesn't offer refunds."

"What? No, hey, no, that's not what I'm saying. You'll get the other half. You'll have it when I do."

"You mean somebody is paying you?"

"My business partner."

This just got better. "Ask him for the money now."

"He won't pay until the fireworks are through."

"In that case, there won't be any fireworks."

A new window popped up on my laptop. Seemed a former colleague from Thames House was trying to private-message me. I tapped out a coded reply, my fingernails clacking across the keys.

"I'm afraid you'll have to forfeit the cash you've already paid," I told him.

"Hey, come on. Let's talk."

"You talk."

Four hours later, he called back.

"So I spoke to my business partner. We'll pay another twenty-five per cent of your fee."

I stayed silent.

"And I know what you're thinking. But hear me out, OK? I have a place along the coast. Antibes. It has a pool, a terrace, the works."

"Give me the address. Perhaps I'll kill you in your sleep."

He chuckled, nervously. "Here's how it works, OK? When you're done, and this whole thing is through, come visit and we'll pay the rest of your fee, plus an extra ten per cent."

"You're offering me a bonus?"

"See? That's what comes from negotiating."

I turned it over in my mind. It wasn't a bad compromise.

"You'll be watching?" I asked.

"Huh?"

"The fireworks."

"Oh. Sure thing. We'll both be watching me and my business partner. You've been to our apartment, right? It has a view over the marina."

"Then take my advice. Wear earplugs."

On the given night, at the given time, I eased into the oily water in my diving suit. The suit was a snug fit, designed for flexibility, not warmth. I could live with the cold. h.e.l.l, considering the fee I was being paid, I could live with most things.

The swim didn't trouble me. Keeping fit was a requirement of the job, and I swam several hundred lengths whenever I visited my local pool. Tonight, the distance I needed to cover was less than half that far. The harbour tides were negligible, and I was wearing flippers. True, I was towing a floating bag of equipment tied off from my ankle, but it was the least of my concerns.