"So why didn't she scream?"
"My question exactly. The husband said that at first it was like a dream to her, that I must have realised she was coming round early and straightened her up. Only she realised very quickly that she hadn't been dreaming. As his story went on, she got out fast, went home and asked her husband to take a look at her. He said that he did, and saw, as he put it, "Clear signs of sexual interference." Bastard!
Bastards!"
"So why didn't he go straight to the police? While the knickers in question were still moist, so to speak."
"He said he wanted to spare you the indignity, you being a public figure and all that. He said he was sure I'd want to as well."
"By how much did he reckon you'd want to spare me?"
"Fifty grand's worth."
"Indeed," I heard myself say, my voice grating. "And if not?"
"The police and the tabloids."
My anger had turned into rage, but not the kind that shows on the outside; this was like a great cold ball inside me, growing all the time. Then the obvious occurred to me.
"Wait a minute. You must have had a doctor there to give the anaesthetic. Surely he'll kick all this into touch."
"Oh, I did; technically I wasn't anaesthetising the woman, only sedating her as I said, but I had Arthur Matthews in to do it. But that's the trouble. He can't back me up. He gave her the nitrous oxide all right, but the patient was no sooner under when his mobile went. A kid had been knocked down in the street, and he was the only doctor handy. He could see that everything was all right with the woman and he knows me well enough, so we agreed that he should get along there pronto. I never thought for a minute that I might be setting myself up, but I bloody well should have. I'm an idiot, son, and I know it."
"You're not an idiot, Dad," I told him, quietly. "You're a very nice man who knows nothing of the dark side of human nature. So what do you plan to do? Go to the police yourself?"
He shook his head, firmly. "Doing that would get you and Susie all over the bloody tabloids just as quickly, and inevitably mud would stick to me. I can't have that, for Mary's sake, or your sister's, or the boys'."
"You're not thinking of paying them, are you?"
"If it comes to it."
I could feel my eyes pulling at the corners as they narrowed. "What's his name? This wee blackmailer, what's his name?"
"Neiporte." He spelled it out. "Walter Neiporte. He sounded American. The wife's name's Andrea; I'd say she was English. She said she works as a secretary in a hotel up behind Kingsbarns, and I believe that he's a lab technician at St. Andrews University. They haven't been on my list for very long. This was only the third time the woman had been to the surgery. He's never been."
"Address?"
"They live in Pittenweem. Do you remember me slowing and looking at someone on the way through here? If you do, that was her."
I had had only a brief glimpse, from a distance, but I could remember her, and also the fact that my Dad had noticed her: tall, dark-haired, maybe thirtyish, although it had been hard to tell from so far away.
"How did your discussion finish?"
"With me grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and running him through the door. But then he phoned me that night. He said that he wasn't kidding, and that if I hadn't agreed to pay him off by next Monday at the latest, then he'd do what he'd threatened."
"Mmm." I looked down at my pint. My Dad was almost through his second, but mine was untouched. I shoved it across to him. "You drink that. I'll drive back." I picked up a filled roll… tuna mayonnaise… and walked over to the bar. There was a pay-phone in the far corner, with a telephone directory beside it, a year out of date and dog-eared from heavy use, but still in one piece. I picked it up and scrolled through it to the letter 'n'. The Neiporte clan is not thick on the ground in the East Neuk of life, but there was one, forename Walter, listed as residing at Grizelda Cottage, Main Street, Pittenweem. I knew exactly where it was; the name had fascinated me when I was a kid: it made me think of witches and stuff. In those days I thought they were fun, but now I knew different.
The third pint was gone when I got back to the table. I picked up the last roll and motioned my Dad towards the door, returning the empties as we left. (Bartenders like that small courtesy; it makes them more likely to fill your glass right up to the top next time.) We collected Jonny, walked back up the winding path to the club car park, dumped the clubs in the boot of the old Jag, changed our shoes, then I drove back to Enster. Back at the house, I stayed in the car as Mac the Dentist climbed out, not showing a trace of unsteadiness.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"We need Pampers for Janet. I'd better get some, just in case we forget tomorrow." If my Dad had thought about it he would have remembered that his granddaughter was two years old, and toilet trained.
As soon as I turned out of the drive, my rage released itself. It flowed through me and there was nothing I could do about it. I felt ferocious, in a way I had only known once before in my life, when I found out the truth about Jan's death. This was almost as bad. This man, these people, were threatening my father's good name, and they were using his only weakness… me… as a lever.
I parked a fair distance from Grizelda Cottage, round the corner, past the legendary Pittenweem fish and chip shop, and walked the rest. Just as I turned into the main street, I saw the woman again, leaving the house and walking away in the opposite direction; going for the fish suppers, maybe. Closer to, I could see that she looked pretty tasty.
By the time I reached the gate, all the old Oz was back, cold and calculating and in control. It did occur to me that there might be kids in the house, but if there were I'd give them a tenner and send them after their mother.
I rang the doorbell; as I waited I glanced around the front garden. It was untidy, but there were absolutely no signs of youngsters, no toys, bikes, footballs or anything like that.
The door opened and a man looked out at me. "Yes?" he said in a slight drawl.
"Walter?" I asked politely.
He nodded, and I saw the light of recognition in his eyes, just about half a second before I hit him and they glazed over. I caught him in the middle of the forehead, a good spot if your hands are hard enough.
I pulled it a bit, so I didn't knock him out, just stunned him. I shoved him into his hallway, then closed the door after myself as he tripped over his feet and fell backwards.
"Whose idea was it?" I asked as he scrambled back up. For a moment he thought about squaring up to me; maybe there was something about my smile that put him off that idea. "Whose idea?" I repeated. "Yours alone, or both of you."
"I dunno what you're talking about."
I started another right-hander; he swayed back from it and as he did I sank my left fist well into his flabby gut. He groaned and sat down again, hard.
This time I jerked him to his feet, easily, to let him see how strong I was. "Don't piss me about," I said evenly. "You and your wife threatened my father, you arse hole You tried to extort money from him. But what you've got is me instead. Somehow or other, you thought that nice old Mac was a soft touch. Maybe you thought that guys like me will do anything to keep our names out of the paper. If that's so, you were wrong twice. My Dad isn't a mug, not at all. As for me, there is nothing I will not do to protect him." I had him by the lapels, his back against a door.
"I could simply beat the shit out of you. That would be no problem.
But it wouldn't be enough. So I want you to listen to me, very carefully. I have a lot of money, and with it I have a lot of power.
Being a Yank, you can probably understand that concept. So what I'm telling you is that if either you or your wife ever go near my father again, and if you go anywhere near the police or the press with this wicked story of yours, something very bad will happen to you. I'm not just talking about a good thumping here, you have to understand. I'm talking much worse than that; concrete Timberlands, that sort of stuff."