‘If you have his phone number that could help. Might be able to do something with that as well.’ Mason scratched his groin absent-mindedly when he made the suggestion and Hamilton squirmed a bit more. He checked his phone, scribbled the number down on a Post-it and handed it over.
‘Handy to have your lassie’s as well so if they call each other I can know who’s who.’
Big Arthur gave him a hard look and his instinct was to say ‘fuck off’, but he knew it made sense and complied.
‘Anythin’ else, Frankie?’ Hamilton asked. ‘Need to shoot.’ What he really meant was he wanted the detective gone and the first thing he’d do was wash in boiling water.
Mason stuck out his hand for a shake and Hamilton put his hand palm up.
‘Had a bit of a bug. Don’t want to pass it on.’ It was a lie, of course; the truth was that the bastard was probably immune from the bugs that ravaged everyone else.
Mason smiled, wiped his hand on his jacket to remove the ever-present film of sweat and said he’d be in touch.
It wouldn’t have happened in the glory days when Hamilton would never have gone outside his own team to be sure of security, but he had no full-time muscle or specialists now and had to hire men like Mason. The risks from a grass inside the team weren’t so much of a problem now because the days of trafficking shitloads of H, counterfeit goods and women were long gone, and it would be almost impossible for the bizzies to make a case now. The bodies he’d buried weren’t making a comeback, and in truth he couldn’t remember exactly where any of them were now. Anyway, he’d always thought that the men he’d killed deserved it, and that was the game. ‘If you don’t want risk, don’t be a fucking gangster,’ was a phrase he used over and over again.
Half an hour later, Hamilton nodded off in his favourite chair. In the dream that came he was a child, the room pitch dark but with a single, four-paned window that glowed white opposite his bed. The light didn’t enter the room and he was terrified but didn’t know why. Then a shaft of light threw a line across his bed and eyes as a door was opened a few inches.
‘Arthur.’
It was almost indiscernible: a whisper, a soft voice that said his name.
‘Arthur.’
He tried to remember why he should be afraid, but it wouldn’t come; all he knew was that he was in danger, and he screamed for his mother over and over again.
He woke gasping air into his lungs and remembered it was that same dream again. Always the same.
Half an hour later he gave in as his eyes started to flicker; he was knackered and headed for his bed.
19
Dominic Grainger had an office in among the Georgian splendour of Edinburgh’s West End. It had cost a bomb, but his legitimate businesses had been doing well enough. Fortunately, the property recovery happened ahead of time in Edinburgh and saved him from a complete train wreck. His siblings complained about the extravagance of an office in the most expensive area in the capital, but it gave the business a professional face, and he knew better than they ever would that was important if questions were asked.
There was another difference: they were traditional gangsters in every sense, whereas Dominic was more like those despised bankers than he could have imagined. At least he’d spread some of the risks over a wide area of investments, kept a few mid- and senior-level civil servants sweet so he knew where new opportunities would arrive in the city, particularly where property development might rise from the dust. He’d made sure the business supported good causes, and cancer charities had good reason to shake the hand of Dominic Grainger for his efforts.
The complication was balancing the criminal and legitimate arms of the business. At various times of stress, one had supported the other when it was required. It had worked during the pre-recession boom days, but on top of everything else his extravagance and gambling addictions were now running out of control and he was struggling to hold his nerve when he thought about the true state of their finances. The problem was all down to him, and when he thought about the size of some of his bets it made the nerves in his gut rattle.
He’d been stressed out since his meeting with Janet Hadden, had spent the following days working out all the angles he could and had come to the conclusion that he had to be positive. It could work, and he knew the men who mattered in this world had their fingers in all the pies. Maybe it had been forced on him, but the best option was to treat it as an opportunity, and it could be.
One thing he was sure of was that he couldn’t let this woman have all the handles of control – she was a strange one, and it would be interesting to see her in action when it was official and she was in the company of another detective. He still wanted her – if anything, the desire in him was growing stronger – but he knew it could cloud his judgement when he might need it most.
She’d called him on Monday morning, sounding businesslike, and told him who she was, which meant someone was listening, and said she wanted to ask him some questions. They’d then agreed that she would call into his office the following Thursday with her colleague – their first official meeting – as she’d outlined during that first night together.
Since then, they’d also set up a safe phone system where he would use a clean pay-as-you-go mobile to talk to her, and it was that they were using now.
‘When we meet officially to exchange information it’ll be on neutral ground,’ she told him. ‘Somewhere out of the city, or we can arrange a hotel room at our expense.’ She let that one hang in the air, we meaning herself and her co-handler, but she knew what would be going through his mind. That was fair enough. ‘The unofficial meets we’ll arrange at the time and either at a hotel or your flat. Wherever, that’s your expense.’
He raised his eyebrows. He was going to have to pay to be a fucking rat. ‘Do you get embarrassed at all?’
‘Why the fuck would I get embarrassed?’
They both let that one hang in the air.
‘I’ve got a meeting with my brothers this afternoon and they’re getting edgy. We’ve had some property stolen recently and they think there’s a security problem somewhere inside the business. Just something we need to take care of.’
He was throwing out his own line to see how she reacted. He was talking about the loss of dope consignments but without detail; there was no way she was going to do him any favours yet when he’d given her nothing but a drink in a bar. Hadden still held the best cards, but the deal had to have some give as well as take and he had to play his cards with a poker face.
‘I need to tell them something about the other night. They’ll hear what happened in the bar. They drink there as well. Weird if I don’t mention it to them.’
‘Go ahead – but no names, no pack drill, right?’ She was giving an order and didn’t want discussion.
‘Fair enough. See you Thursday.’
‘That’s it. See you then.’ She put down the phone and thought so far so good.
Grainger put the phone in his pocket, stepped over to the window and watched a hailstorm thrash the cars parked out in the street. The sky was a variety of fat black and cobalt clouds rattling over the old city. He felt it again: the conflict inside, the overwhelming desire for her, but also an image of squeezing her throat till the capillaries in her skin and eyes ruptured, a myriad of petechial haemorrhages erupting as she died at his hands. He let out a long breath and shook as he saw the image fade in his mind.
He opened the cabinet in the corner of the office, took out the twenty-year-old malt and half-filled the glass before throwing it over his throat. The impact on his acid-filled stomach almost made him retch and he sat down, his sight blurred for a moment as he let the nascent panic attack subside.
‘Everything’s fucked.’ He said it through instinct and knew there would be no happy ending, whatever he did. There were too many lies to bury without trace.
20
Sean and Paul Grainger walked into the office and Dominic stood up, grinning at the boys. He’d survive
d his panic attack and pulled himself together as far as he could. He needed to put on a show because his brothers would smell the least hint of nerves on his part. They were his half-brothers, much younger than him and the result of his mother dying before her time and his old man eventually marrying his second wife. Dominic never took to his new stepmother, through no fault of her own, and when the boys came along he struggled with the additions to the family. They got on well enough, but there was a distance between them that tended to show when a problem came up; most of the time, though, they were like friends rather than brothers. They would go to Easter Road, scream at the Hibees and neck beers after the game like so many other young guys. But when they fell out it was always hard, and there was a resentment caused by a set of circumstances that had nothing directly to do with any of them. As the eldest, Dominic took the lead on everything where a decision had to be made, and although it was perfect sense, it bothered the younger brothers, especially Paul, who always wanted more. The older he got, the more he felt Dominic had too much control.
Their father had been a criminal – not a very good one, being more muscle than brain – but he had taught them the trade. Dominic had inherited his mother’s looks and brain and the younger brothers their father’s temper and tendency for unnecessary violence.
The office meeting was a regular event; unless there was a crisis they met up at least once a week to chew the fat. There were a lot of arms to the business, so communication was needed to keep things stable.
‘How’s it going?’ Dominic pulled some beers from a bucket of ice and flipped the tops off the bottles. He knew what they liked and always had them ready.
‘All good, Dom.’ Sean Grainger was the youngest of the brothers and easy-going unless his temper caught fire. He grabbed the beer and necked half the bottle in one go. Paul grunted and sipped his brew without saying too much. Dominic could tell something was bothering him, but that wasn’t unusual – there was always something bothering Paul.
‘Any problems your end?’ Dominic said easily – it was his usual opening line when they met.
‘Still no joy on the gear we’ve lost. It fuckin’ bothers me this.’ The question had fired Paul up, but then he never took much lighting either. ‘Then that numpty Tonto losin’ the package when the Pole chased him.’ Paul said it through gritted teeth, the old temper simmering. He was pissed off because something was going wrong and he couldn’t make up his mind whether it was bad luck or a human problem, intentional or otherwise.
The story with Pete the Pole and Tonto had already become legend, even making the Scottish news. The uniforms fucking off had made front-page, laugh-out-loud headlines as the papers indulged every piss-take possible, with one rag suggesting that they were looking at the cops concerned for the sprint event in the next Olympics. The mobile phone shots were hoot of the week on Facebook and the Chief Constable had said in private he wanted them hanged, drawn and quartered. Of course, that comment was leaked to the press and had just added fuel to the raging fire that was Police Scotland’s already battered image.
‘It’s the fourth loss in the last few weeks. Don’t like it one bit, Dom.’ Paul pulled on the e-cigarette that wasn’t helping his craving for the real thing. He cursed, put it on his brother’s desk and pulled out a twenty-pack of cancer sticks. He lit up and closed his eyes with relief when the drug hit his bloodstream.
‘Might be just a bad run; shit happens in this business.’ Dominic tried to calm his brother’s frayed nerves and turned to his other sibling. ‘What do you think?’
‘Not sure.’ Sean was the closest of the two to Dominic. ‘Seems funny the two dealers we supply getting done at the same time. That has to be some fucker talkin’. Might just be another pissed-off wee dealer. Hard to say, but we’ve drawn a blank so far. Tonto’s on a final warnin’ and top tax. If he loses anythin’ else then it’s time to have him in.’
Paul’s face was red with suppressed anger. ‘Fuckin’ right he’s in!’
Dominic didn’t like the way Paul was acting one bit and wondered if he’d been powdering his nose again. He had the look even though he claimed to have been clean for over a year.
The office phone rang. Dominic lifted it with a heavy sensation in his gut; something chewed at his nerves, and it was as if a number of crisis indicators were all moving into negative territory. One of Paul’s team was looking to speak to him and it had to be important if he was interrupting the brothers’ meeting. After saying ‘What?’ Paul went quiet for the next minute.
About an hour before they’d started the meeting another of their couriers was travelling back from Leeds with twenty kilos of H concealed in a suitcase in the back of a hired Beamer. The courier was a tried-and-tested carrier, ex drugs squad, bunged out of the force for an off-duty skirmish in a Glasgow bar that had resulted in a decorated soldier losing an eye. He looked the part, dressed as a businessman, and it should have been a breeze. He knew all about surveillance and countermeasures, but it had made no difference that day.
The Leeds suppliers were the main targets in a National Crime Squad operation south of the border. The NCS hadn’t a scooby about Scots couriers or Scots involvement, but they were close to taking out the English team thanks to an undercover officer working inside and reporting successfully. It was simply coincidence that the Jock appeared at a meeting the UC was attending and took a suitcase away to his overnight hotel. The UC clocked the Beamer number and relayed it back to his ranch, and the NCS team leader decided there would be no harm getting a routine pull on the Jock well north of the border – if the man was dirty then it was all good evidence for their own case when the time came. A Scottish traffic patrol car stopped the guy, who made it easy by doing ninety in a sixty area. Not very professional, but the courier had got pissed in the hotel the night before and wanted to get home and rest his hangover. Shit happens and he’d been arrested when they searched the car and found the goodies.
‘I’ll be there shortly and you better get on this fuckin’ mess now, you hear me?’ Paul had lost it completely, almost screaming down the phone, before he stood up and threw the handset across the office.
‘That doesn’t do anyone any good, Paul. Sit down and I’ll get you a drink.’ Dominic’s face darkened; he knew troubled times were about to get worse. Sean shrunk a little into his seat and left the talking to his older siblings. He never got anywhere with Paul anyway, and few people did once he’d made up his mind about a problem.
‘Tell me what’s up. We always work it out,’ Dominic said as calmly as possible.
Paul’s chest was heaving with rage – he needed somewhere to put it till he could give some of his team a hard time. He glared at Dominic and it was obvious that despite whatever shreds of brotherly love they might once have had, they were heading in different directions. Dominic realised that he should have taken it on a long time ago; he’d seen it coming but parked it. That was a mistake, but who wanted civil war with brothers? They were always the worst and bloodiest enemies.
Paul sat down and lit another cigarette. The stress level in the room was on red and Sean knew that whatever was happening was going to be a pain in the arse. He followed his brother’s example and lit one up for himself, despite having been stopped for a month.
Paul told them what had happened to the courier, sucking in the tobacco smoke between sentences as if it was saving his life. ‘That’s it.’ He spat it out: ‘We have a fuckin’ grass somewhere an’ it’ll bring us down at this rate. I’m tellin’ you, the fuckin’ bizzies are probably on our case, has to be. Twenty fuckin’ kilos. We promised half to that Weegie bastard Greig Young. He’ll really see the fuckin’ funny side.’
‘Greig Young?’ Dominic sat up, his mouth tightening into a straight line. ‘When did we start doing business with him? He’s just all bad news. You didn’t think to run this past me?’
He picked up a pen and started to tap the end of it on the desk. Dominic was the calmest of the brothers, but he felt the heat rising –
their troubles seemed to be mounting by the day. The problem with Greig Young was that he was permanently in conflict with other criminals. He was so unreliable that he constantly let people down, refused to pay for goods and would even rip off people he was dealing with. No ordinary decent criminals, or ODCs as they were known in the game, would touch him with a stick. Yet Paul Grainger had.
‘It’s fuck all to do wi’ you, Dominic?’ Paul used his full name because he was pissed off, not that anyone needed a clue. ‘You stay well away from the hard stuff, leavin’ us to take all the risks, an’ we agreed we run this side of the business. So what’s your problem? While we’re at it . . . what about you, brother? Think it’s a secret what happened at the boozer?’
Paul had calmed and enjoyed watching Dominic squirm in his chair.
‘You fuck around every weekend wi’ anythin’ that has a skirt an’ a pulse. Now some tart you’ve picked up half-murders a punter. Fuck’s sake, you should remember you’re still married to Big Arthur’s wee girl. Do we need him on your case at the moment? Jesus!’
Paul sat back; his anger had been released and for a few seconds they sat quietly eye to eye, digesting what had happened, what had been said and what was to come.
‘I was going to tell you about it. Christ, I didn’t know she was Bruce fucking Lee’s sister.’
It would have struck anyone listening that there was a marked difference in the way Dominic and his brothers spoke. The younger men used the language, inflections and dropped Gs of most of the east-coast population. It was education – Dominic had excelled at school and was unusual in his trade in that he’d gone on to university. His father had been a bit of an arse but he’d promised his first wife that her only son would be educated as far as he could. Dominic had sailed through, but his father had made no such commitment for his other sons and it was another wedge driven between them through no fault of their own.
Our Little Secrets Page 9