He narrowly missed two spaces with perfect views of the woman’s front door and was seriously considering a bit of road rage with one of the bastards, who sneered as she slipped into a perfect space when he made the mistake of driving a car length ahead to reverse in. The bitch in question had one of those cars that resembled a sewing machine on wheels and she seemed to be pissing herself in triumph as she swung into the captured ground Mason thought was his.
He wanted to kill her but reminded himself that he was on a job. Nevertheless, he decided it couldn’t completely lie, so he reversed back, stopped parallel to the sewing machine and gave her the eye like something from one of his horror films. For a moment, he put on the face of the serial killer of people’s nightmares, and he loved it when the woman went from pink to white, her triumph morphing into near panic as he held the stare. As a final gesture, he drew his finger across his throat and was about to drive on when he realised there was movement at the stair door he should have been concentrating on rather than terrifying a housewife in a sewing machine. He’d almost failed to notice the woman who’d stepped out into the cool morning sunshine and fumbled in her bag as if she might have forgotten something. He cursed himself again for being late on the job.
After looking both ways, the woman headed along Raeburn Place. It was that walk again from the night before – the woman who’d been at Dominic Grainger’s flat had a distinctive way of moving, even though she’d been under the influence. Everyone had their own form of self-propulsion, and although most people would never notice, Mason absorbed these signals instinctively. He was an expert people-watcher, fascinated by their interactions and the non-verbals they displayed every minute of their days. For him it was a vast opera without words, visible wireless traffic keeping people apart and private or bringing them together. These were signs that watchers like Mason could pick up, analyse and use.
Hers wasn’t a steady walk, and her hips weren’t swinging, but a definite impatience in the movement confirmed it was her; in fact, the woman almost flounced. Even at a distance the night before and with the car windows closed he had been able to hear the faint sound of her feet hitting the pavement. It was like she was saying, ‘Here I come; stay the fuck out of my way or else!’
There was another bonus: she’d changed her appearance, and he guessed that at this time of the morning she had her real face on display. The woman the night before and in the photograph from the pub had much longer hair and glasses. It didn’t matter; it was her.
He moved off slowly, sure that she would jump a bus or taxi and annoyed that he couldn’t park. He would just have to try to stay with her, hoping she wasn’t going too far. She kept walking, and when there was no sign of her looking for a taxi, he changed the bet to the local Waitrose store and guessed she was going to buy the lunch sandwiches or early-morning coffee everyone liked to be seen with.
But Mason was wrong again. He pulled into a bus stop and watched her hurry along the road as if she was late. Can’t be, Frankie boy, he thought and shook his head, beginning to suspect that things were about to take an even more interesting turn.
He knew he was right when he saw her cross the road and turn right into Fettes Avenue. There was only one place she could be going and he moved the car away slowly, giving her time. He indicated to turn right after her, and when he was stationary at the junction he saw her crossing the road again in the broad street that was the foreground to the old gates at the front of Fettes College. As soon as she crossed the road, it was clear it wasn’t the college she was making for, so unless he was completely off course that left one option, and she was heading straight for it.
‘Well, I’ll be fucked. Dominic, what have you been up to, son?’ he said into the stale air of the car.
She headed into what had been the old Lothian and Borders Police HQ. The uninspiring square building had been the centre of a thousand dramas when it was the seat of power in the old force; now, however, it was just another satellite office in the Police Scotland structure.
Mason watched her drape an ID card round her neck and disappear inside. There were a couple of parking spaces opposite the building and he knew the charges were more reasonable there than in most parts of the city. He stuck some coins in the meter and switched the engine off. There was nothing else he could do there and he certainly didn’t intend on watching a police office all day and risk a pull for his trouble. He just needed a bit of time to think what his next move was and what he was going to do with this dramatic little turn of events.
He ran through the story so far: Arthur Hamilton, who was a premier-league gangster, though semi-retired for sure, hires him to watch his son-in-law who’s also a premier-league gangster, or reputed to be. His brothers were certainly in the game but street men. Dominic pulls this female who knocks the fuck out of a guy in a bar without breaking sweat. She turns out to be law and meets Dominic using a disguise. She’s on her own so it can’t be official. Plus, just to add a bit of extra heat to the situation, Dominic’s in touch with some fucking Belfast prods.
This was a serious brew and he knew these were only tasters from a bigger story. He pulled out his laptop and googled the words ‘Hadden’ and ‘police’. There were a few possibles.
He locked on to a story from a few years earlier where a female detective sergeant had made an off-duty arrest and disarmed a bam with a knife threatening some American tourists during the Festival. He started digging and felt the tension in his throat. There were a few articles, and it happened that Detective Sergeant Janet Hadden had ended up with a commendation, whereas the bam had apparently lost a couple of teeth and needed treatment for a fractured arm after the arrest. It turned out she was a martial-arts expert and the bam had given her a chance to prove how good she was.
Mason knew he was about to be introduced to the woman who was bringing in his wages and causing a few ripples along the way. He found one article with a picture. Not a very good one, but there she was: the woman he’d just followed to Fettes. There was almost no change in her appearance, and he stared at the unsmiling face in the newspaper shot, taking in every detail he could store away.
‘Well, Janet. What’s your game then, girl?’
He sat back and wondered what the fuck he should do with this. By rights he should have called it a day, gone straight to Arthur Hamilton and collected his bonus and a pat on the back. But his nose was twitching. There was a story here – a good one – and he could easily spend another couple of days before having to get back to the big man with a final report. He called the subcontractor.
‘Anything doing?’ He didn’t expect progress at that time of the morning and there wasn’t any. Grainger had arrived at his office as usual; his assistant had gone out and got the coffees as usual.
‘I’ll come and join you in a bit. We’ll go two up on this today. Want to stick with him wherever he goes. It’s Thursday so the weekend starts here for this boy.’
Mason lit a cigarette and watched a few cars leave the police car park. They had plain clothes in them and he grinned because the new all-transparent, caring, sharing force insisted that the word ‘police’ was printed in big fuck-off letters at the bottom of the front doors.
He’d known a few bizzies in his time and remembered the days when the suits he mixed with for business would spend half their late shift in the boozer. Mason used to trade information with DS Mick Harkins in those days, although he couldn’t remember the detective ever buying a round for his trouble. It seemed like a thousand years ago and men like Harkins were now as long gone as the dinosaurs.
He wondered what the risks were if he kept on this trail without the okay from Hamilton. Maybe he’d get no further and whatever was going on would just stay an intriguing puzzle, beyond his time and resources. What could he gain by sticking his hooter in this particular midden? He had no idea, but information could be gold. What made things difficult was that everyone involved so far, and probably including Janet Hadden, was dangerous in their own right.
He sighed and lit another cigarette as he watched a traffic warden wander past, looking for his first victim of the day. He fucking hated them and stuck a finger up as the warden, in a seriously oversized uniform, peered into the car. The warden stopped only for a second before it dawned that he probably couldn’t win this one and moved on.
Mason said, ‘Fuck you, boy,’ in what he thought was a Deep South accent. The horror he’d watched the night before had featured a fairly impressive Louisiana sheriff who’d turned out to be a night-time slasher.
Mason decided to give it another couple of days and then report back to Hamilton one way or another. He had a feeling he might get caught in some kind of civil war, but he’d see where it went first. Although his head told him to leave it alone, his gut wanted more.
The cigarette had almost burned down to his fingers when he tossed it out onto the road, started the engine and headed off. Everyone had their little secrets and this was a collection of beauties. He couldn’t just ignore them now; he had to know or he’d always wonder what they were all hiding.
It was nearly 3 p.m. when Mason checked in again with the subcontractor, but there was nothing moving at Grainger’s office. They swapped round a couple of times just to give each other a break and avoid any locals wondering what the fuck was going on. That wasn’t usually too much of a problem – most times if someone took an interest they tended to think it was the police anyway.
‘Still nothing doin’ but should see the boy soon enough. Time for his afternoon bet— Wait one!’
The subcontractor cut off for a few seconds and Mason didn’t need to be told that there had been movement of some kind. He didn’t get too excited and guessed it would be Dominic taking a flyer.
‘A female accompanied by a male into the office. Got a half-decent picture.’
‘Describe her first.’ Mason waited, feeling the old butterflies in his stomach. A good job still gave him a kick, and this one had so much potential. The subcontractor gave him every detail he had, and he was meticulous. Everything he’d seen was noted.
It’s our Janet, he thought. Mason didn’t say anything to the subcontractor, because he didn’t want anyone else to know.
‘I’ll join you in a few minutes and you can show me the photo. I’ll take over and you can have a break.’
When he slipped in beside the subcontractor he was struck by how clean the guy managed to keep his car. Mason’s looked and stank like the dregs in the bottom of a skip, but this guy was good and his old army habits had never left him. He was disciplined down to his daily change of socks whereas Mason had left it all behind almost from the day he walked back onto civvy street.
The photograph wasn’t perfect but it didn’t need a second look – it was Janet Hadden alright, and with a guy in his early thirties. He was in plain clothes but had that look some cops just can’t hide, no matter what they wear or do with their hair. He might as well have tattooed Police Scotland on his forehead.
So this visit looked official and again he wondered what the fuck this woman was about. Mason had taken time to think and the problem was that these things didn’t tend to present a sudden revelation of the truth; you needed patience plus effort to get somewhere near the plans or subterfuge of other people. He had to face up to the fact that this might mean weeks and he didn’t have that before he had to give Arthur Hamilton something worthwhile. It was frustrating but he might just have to bite the bullet and give up what he’d found in order to keep the big man onside.
33
Inside Dominic Grainger’s office everything went like clockwork and Hadden had to admire his acting ability, which was almost as good as hers. The possible downside was that it meant he was probably a more devious bastard than she’d accounted for.
She’d taken along Detective Sergeant Tommy Bannerman, who was new enough in the department to keep quiet and just follow the leader. He was happy as a pig in shit that she’d picked him for what was potentially a beauty. A lot of work had gone into preparing the ground, and if they could get Grainger to bend over, he’d be co-handler on a big, big fish. It never dawned on him that he was playing the role of unsuspecting fool – just a bit player in the real drama that was taking place on a level well away from the light. He watched and listened in admiration as his DI seemed to hit Grainger between the eyes with threats over money laundering and involvement in his brother’s criminal organisation. Grainger went through all the range of emotions he would have if any of it was real: he did a good version of anger, accompanied by some mildish finger-jabbing, before finishing with a wonderful transition into acceptance that the cops were just too good for him.
‘Tell me what’s on offer here.’
When he heard those magic words, Bannerman could hardly contain himself. Since joining the unit all he’d done was run a couple of low-level dealers who did no more than rat on the odd competitor who was doing exactly the same as they were themselves. This was a platinum record, off the Richter scale and it was a shame he couldn’t mention a word of it to anyone. Disclosure of a source’s name was a hanging offence; he’d be lucky to get a jaggy suit back and was much more likely to be fired if he opened his mouth in the wrong place.
Within an hour they’d made the arrangements with Grainger and he was signed on and had accepted the rules. Bannerman almost went misty-eyed when Hadden stood up and hammered the new relationship right into Grainger’s face.
‘Remember, Dominic. We dictate and you comply. You step out of line and I’ll have your arse in Saughton before you can say sorry. You understand?’
She was the conductor waving her baton and Grainger, the big name, was reduced to the equivalent of roadkill. Bannerman wanted to learn from Hadden and do what she could do. He was hypnotised by a form of magic.
‘I’ll have something for you later in the week.’ Grainger looked defeated and intent on saving his own miserable skin.
When they walked downstairs from Grainger’s office, Bannerman couldn’t help himself.
‘Good job there, boss. Christ, that guy could be pure gold.’ He was like a child and Hadden was pleased she’d brought him into the job. He was a dipstick, which was exactly what she’d wanted.
‘Let’s not get carried away, Tommy. We play it by the book, keep the pressure on the bastard and hopefully he’ll play the game for us. Have to manage him carefully though and not waste him with a couple of good jobs. We want this one as a long-term investment, so we might have to ignore some of what he gives us for the bigger picture.’
He nodded and felt he’d suddenly entered a new world where the criminals and stakes were much higher. It was just what he’d always wanted and dreamed of: to be a cop who mattered.
34
Frankie Mason watched the two bizzies step out onto the pavement. The male of the species looked like someone had tickled his balls with a feather, though Janet Hadden was wearing a serious expression, which, in his short experience of her, seemed to be the face she wore most of the time. He stayed where he was, not wanting to risk going on her tail again. He called the subcontractor, who wasn’t that far away, and asked him if he could pick them up.
‘I’ll leave them to you but guess they have a car somewhere nearby.’
He was right and got the call that they’d got into a set of wheels and headed off towards Fettes.
‘Let them run.’ Mason guessed they would be heading back to their office, but it didn’t really matter where they were going because the last thing he wanted was for them to realise they were being watched. They were the bizzies for fuck’s sake and would tipple it eventually.
Mason decided to stick with Grainger for the time being. It was now late Thursday afternoon, so with a bit of luck he would follow his natural habits and chase some skirt. It would be something else to report back to Hamilton.
He opened a flask of coffee, wishing he wasn’t so addicted to the stuff. His mouth hygiene wasn’t the best, and his regular injection of a strong black variety left his gob fe
eling like a dog’s arse, but he needed it in the absence of a proper diet. The endless intake of black instant and cigarettes usually left his gut feeling sour; it was only relieved by his one meal of the day, which he never consumed till later on each evening. The pain was really gripping his belly, so he swallowed two indigestion tablets and tossed the empty packet onto the seat next to him with the other ones.
Mason was struggling to stay interested and wondered why Grainger wasn’t moving. He was stiff and wished he could go for a wander round the streets, nip into a boozer and taste a decent beer. The subcontractor was close enough and Mason had decided to keep him on for the night in case he needed him to take over if Grainger did a lot of diving around.
He was just beginning to wonder whether, somehow or another, he’d missed Grainger leaving the office when the man appeared.
‘Thank fuck,’ he muttered.
He called the subcontractor and told him that there was movement and to stay close enough so he could hand over to him if required.
Grainger strolled off and caught Mason out. He cursed as he remembered one of the golden rules of surveillance: don’t presume, which was what he’d done. It was Thursday late afternoon and the intelligence so far had been that Dominic Grainger would head for the West End and the boozers where he picked up his women. That area was within walking distance, but Grainger was heading in the opposite direction.
Mason had risked parking in a space that was too tight and struggled to get out before Grainger disappeared from sight. Fortunately, he caught a glimpse of his quarry and managed to get back on his tail.
A fast black let Mason out into the stream of traffic. Christ, he thought, a fast-black driver that actually gives a fuck. Normally they just ignored everything on the road and gave two fingers to the Highway Code or good manners.
Our Little Secrets Page 18