Horror was written on the man’s face. “It looks to me like a branding iron

The way that Kym Ewen was heading, Fatboy reckoned it wouldn’t be long before he’d have to move on from Esplanade Court. And if he did that, wouldn’t it be a good idea to keep tabs on “his” kids? After all, he never knew when he might have need of them again. He’d toyed with the idea of marking the children out in some way – cap, badge, T-shirt – something to show they belonged. Too obvious, he decided. Plus they’d probably lose them.

No, it would have to be something more subtle: a mark of some sort, a small one, just to show where he’d been. Fatboy flirted with the idea of a tattoo.

The number of tattoos some of these kids were flashing already – the older ones, that is – another wee one would hardly be noticed.

But this would present logistical problems. He couldn’t just haul a bunch of kids down a tattoo parlour.

The idea had come to him when he was watching an old movie, Netflix being Fatboy’s default position when he got hacked off with porn.

Now he stood in front of the door. With narrowed eyes, he regarded the lettering on the plastic name plate. Then he turned the handle and went in.

Panic button

A counter ran the width of the room. Against the far wall stood a workbench. An old geezer was bent over it, an eyeglass lodged in his right socket.

The old man turned, the strip light on the ceiling bouncing a pattern on his baldy head. “Can ah help you?”

Fatboy shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

The man removed the jeweller’s loupe and rose to his feet. “Is it a repair ye’re needin’?”

“Not exactly.”

The old guy crossed to the counter, all the while keeping eye contact with Fatboy. He slid one hand underneath.

Fatboy suspected a panic button. He readied himself to turn and flee. The hand re-appeared, clutching a well-thumbed duplicate book. Fatboy relaxed. “I was wanting something made.” The man’s face lit up. “A ring, maybe, young fella like you? That’s no a problem. Ah’d be delighted, to tell the truth.

“It’s no often ah get the chance to make anything from scratch. It’s aw repairs these days.”

“Ring?” Fatboy scoffed. “No chance. I’m far too cute to get cornered.” It wasn’t that long since he’d seen off the last one. Emma was still texting him, stupid female.

“No,” he lowered his voice. “It’s something much more…” He floundered till the word came to him. “Artistic.”

“How d’ye mean?” Suspicious look.

“A one-off.”

The milky eyes flickered, uncertain. “One-off what, exactly?”

“Don’t you worry,” Fatboy’s tone was reassuring, “it’s nothing illegal. More a special…” He hesitated. “Tool.”

“A tool?” The man still didn’t look too happy. “Calm down, faither,” Fatboy flashed a smile, “I’ll be paying cash.”

He reached into his inside pocket and extracted a folded sheet of paper. He spread it on the counter. “It’s a very simple design,” he explained.

The jeweller studied the rough drawing. “Ah can see that.”

“But it will have to be compact,” Fatboy continued. “No bigger than a biro.”

Horror

“Mmm,” the old boy stroked his chin.

“With a good, solid handle. And…” he hesitated, “the handle will have to be heatproof.”

“Heatproof?” The old geezer’s eyebrows shot up into his non-existent hairline.

“And the shaft should be slim, with…”

“Hang on.” Horror was written on the man’s face. “It looks to me like a branding iron.”

Fatboy grinned. “Got it in one.”

“But what’s it for, exactly?” the jeweller puzzled. “A-a…project.”

“Hobby, like?”

A sly smile played on Fatboy’s lips. “Sort of.” “Pokerwork, mebbe? Ah mind thon stuff in ma granny’s hoose…”

“Not pokerwork,” Fatboy interrupted. “What then?”

Fatboy wished he’d kept his big mouth shut. “More like a…” He struggled for inspiration, then, “tattoo.”

“We-ell,” the old geezer deliberated. “Ah dinna ken.”

Fatboy rested his bulk on the counter. “You just said yourself that the design isn’t complicated.”

“Ah did, aye. But it won’t be the easiest job, havin’ to keep it that small, but…” He cleared his throat. “Robust.”

“Nothing like a challenge.” Fatboy leaned in close, his voice filled with menace. “So can you make the thing up or not?”

The old man’s voice was filled with uncertainty. “Ah’m no sure.”

Fatboy straightened. He flexed his arms. “What’s the problem?”

“N-n-naethin’.” The old geezer eyed him from beneath lowered lids. “What ah’m sayin’ is, naethin’ ah canna work ma way roon’.”

“Well, then. There’s only one thing left to do.” “Wh-what’s that?”

Fatboy smirked. “Agree a price.”

“B-but, a b-branding iron…” The man’s eyes were out on his cheeks. “What did ye say ye were gaun tae dae wi’ it?”

“Never you mind.”

“We-ell, it’s no the sort o’ thing…”

Fatboy’s arm shot out. He grabbed the jeweller by the shirt collar. “Listen to me, Grandpa, you said yourself the design was straightforward.”

“Aye.”

“And it’s not going to take much in the way of materials, don’t you agree?”

The jeweller nodded, mute.

Fatboy tightened his grip on the man’s neck. “So what is it you’re going to do for me?”

The old boy’s face drained of colour. “Mak somethin’ up.”

He squeezed harder. “And that something is?” “A-a-a tool. Nae bigger than a biro. Wi’…” The jeweller struggled for breath. “A heatproof handle.” “And?” Fatboy prompted.

“A wee cross on the end.”

“Spot on,” he relaxed his hold. “A cross…” A faraway look flitted across Fatboy’s face. “Or a kiss, maybe.”

Neutral

“Six per cent, you said?” Maggie sat in Marks & Spencer’s café.

“Bottom line.” The young man opposite flashed a set of artificially whitened teeth. “Could go as high as twelve.”

He’d wanted to come to the house. Said his office was being refurbished and, anyhow, his clients felt more secure talking large sums of money in the privacy of their own homes.

Maggie had been forced to invent a lodger, propose meeting on neutral ground. For she knew otherwise.

“Granville Securities” was one of many names adopted by the fraudster she’d been retained to track down.

And time was running out: its registered office unmanned, telephone calls going unanswered.

More tomorrow.