Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [12]
Tommy didn't want to think about that. He spoke into the phone: "You haven't hurt the lad, have you?"
"Just get here," Phil said and gave him directions.
Apparently at the bus station things hadn't gone according to plan.
Smith hadn't shown up. Some short, spotty teenager had appeared in his place instead. Tommy and Phil hadn't anticipated this. Smith was seemingly pretty cautious for a madman. But whether Smith turned up or not, the plan had to be the same. Follow whoever, wherever. This lad was their only link to Smith. Apart from which, he now had the money. And if he got away with it, Tommy would never see it again.
So Phil had followed the kid. Then seen an opportunity and seized it.
If you believed Phil, he didn't have any choice. The lad was about to get into a car, drive off, leave Phil stranded with no Smith and no courier and no money. He'd had to make a move. A move that ended up with the lad forced to hand over his car keys and then trussed up in the boot.
No witnesses. The car was parked on a quiet sidestreet. And Phil said he'd only had to hit him once to get his attention.
Tommy hoped he hadn't hit him hard. The longer Phil had this kid in his custody, the more likely something was to go wrong. But Tommy did feel a buzz in his temples. For the first time, he had the edge over Smith. He put his foot to the floor.
Residential parking was round the back of the towerblock. Tommy pulled into a free space, killed the engine. His was the only German car alongside a bunch of Nissans and Ford Fiestas. He wasn't so much concerned about not having a permit as he was that the car would be gone when he returned. Or if not the whole car, then at least the wheels.
There was no sign of life. Not even a couple of neds hanging around who could watch his car for cash. It wasn't as if it was that late. Must be a big football match tonight, or something. Only about a third of the lights in the towerblock were on, though. Maybe all watching the game at the pub. Missed opportunity, in any case. Kids these days had no entrepreneurial skills. Too fixed on trying to get Asbos.
Tommy walked over to the entrance. No security system. He swung the door open, stepped inside. A couple of guys sitting on the stairs turned their backs to hide something. Not difficult to guess what. One of them had a needle sticking out of the crook of his arm.
If you didn't know better, you'd think Edinburgh had a bit of a drugs problem.
Tommy took the lift up to the seventh floor. Got to the door. Knocked.
***
PHIL LET HIM in. Led him down the corridor by torchlight. Just like Phil. Always prepared. The real last boy scout. Even wearing a pair of gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints. And for once he didn't have a can of beer in his hand.
There was a slight smell of damp and something unusual. Sweet but hard to place. A bit like popcorn but, more likely, dead mice.
At the end of the corridor, Phil opened the door. Handed Tommy the torch.
The door creaked open and Tommy shone the light around the room. Bare floorboards. Wallpaper hanging off the walls. Not good for soundproofing. Minimal furniture. A two-seater settee. And a dining chair. A plate-glass door led into another room, probably the kitchen.
Smith's teenage courier was sitting in the chair, straining against the packing tape that was holding him there. He looked far closer to Jordan's age than to Fraser's. Too young to be involved with someone like Smith.
His shoulders rocked and a faint buzzing sound came from him as his moans vibrated against the tape over his mouth. There was a lot of tape. Between attaching him to the chair, and stopping him making a noise, Phil must have used most of a roll.
Tommy shone the light