Mason settled down and lit up a cigarette. The brief delay had worked out and put some distance and cover between him and Grainger, who seemed in a hurry now. He followed him till he was back in St Vincent Place, pulling out a set of car keys next to a smartish Jag parked in front of one of the garages at the rear of the street. The car was new to Mason, but he was pleased because it stood out and would be easy to follow.
‘Where we off to now, son?’ Mason was talking to himself again, due in large part to the lonely existence that passed for his life. Apart from work there was almost no close contact with people unless he counted the subcontractor or other people he brought in to support some of his jobs. It didn’t bother him at all; in fact, he really didn’t want to be close to anyone, because through his work and a lifetime of rejection he just didn’t like the human race that much, and he was fine just observing them for a living. It tended to prove what he thought anyway: that close involvement was probably best avoided.
He had his love of booze, horror films and the work, and when he weighed it all up, it wasn’t that bad compared with some of the lives he examined. When he needed physical contact, he was happy with the working girls who operated at the bargain-basement end of the game. What took place tended to be over and done within a few minutes anyway, at which point he was ordering them out of his flat. That wasn’t a problem – most of the girls couldn’t wait to escape in case they picked up a bug lurking in the discarded rubbish that lay for weeks between the clean-ups that he was eventually forced into.
Dominic Grainger was looking for Tonto. Although he worked for his brothers and had never spoken to him, Grainger knew him by sight – and, of course, by reputation. Hadden had given him more than enough information to track the boy down to the boozer he always frequented from a Thursday onwards. Grainger knew this marked the boy out as a fuckwit, because the smart gangsters never stuck to a script. Not having been gifted with endless patience for doing things he didn’t enjoy, he prayed that he wouldn’t have to sit waiting half the night to spot the boy. He wanted to grab him before the boozer rather than after, when he’d probably be half-pissed anyway.
Tonto’s flat was only a few minutes’ walk from the pub, so he decided to take a chance and rap his door first. It was a risk, but Hadden had told him that he was on his own, with no female or flatmate in the road. He knew guys like Tonto spent little time at home, but it was worth a try.
Getting into the stairwell turned out to be too easy – even though there was an entry system, it was fucked, and his nostrils signalled that the close was used as a local toilet. He screwed up his face and remembered when he’d stayed in something worse than this. He’d come a long way since then.
Tonto’s flat was on the third storey and he spotted the boy’s name scribbled on a bit of cardboard – ‘Davy McGill, a Jambo till I dye’ – which was stuck to the door with tape. He smiled at the spelling. The words were no more than he would expect, but then it was just the work of some half-baked twat, so who really cared? He guessed the only correspondence the guy would get was the odd summons or a ‘what the fuck you up to?’ letter from whoever he owed money to.
He stood at the door for a minute and realised how much he looked out of place there. The smart suit and just-washed look was a stand-out so he definitely couldn’t be mistaken for a resident.
It was quiet enough and he couldn’t hear anything from the flat opposite. He put the side of his head close to the door without touching it and listened. Guys like Tonto probably wouldn’t answer unless they knew exactly who was calling. There was a spyhole but he didn’t want Tonto seeing him, pretending he wasn’t in and then asking questions. If it got back to Paul, he’d smell treachery a mile off.
If Grainger had been concentrating less on Tonto, he might just have heard the close door opening as slowly and quietly as Frankie Mason could manage. Mason screwed up his face as the knackered door scraped over a few inches of the close floor, making just too much noise. But he was careful and it was pretty well masked by the heavy traffic outside. He knew how it was done and he stood still, letting his ears do the work. He just about heard Grainger climb the last few steps before he’d reached Tonto’s door and then everything went quiet. Grainger had either been spooked by the noise or he was waiting outside someone’s door. He held his nerve and waited; if Grainger came back down the stairs he could be outside among the punters before he could be picked out. The building was only four storeys, but he was sure Grainger was on the third or top floor.
Grainger heard it clearly from inside the flat. The music was playing loud enough for him to be certain that someone, most likely Tonto, was inside – and the bonus was that the useless bastard was blissfully trying to sing along with it, ignorant of the fact that his future was about to take yet another unwanted turn. Grainger spat on the spyhole so it wouldn’t look covered, just distorted, then he whacked the door a couple of shots. The singing stopped and the radio was switched off. Grainger listened to Tonto pad to the inside of the door and stick his peeper to the hole.
‘Hello?’ Tonto left it at one word.
‘Davy. Just want a word. It’s Dominic Grainger.’
Tonto had given away he was inside and there was no way he’d refuse the main man. If it was someone going to take him apart, the door would have been caved in and the malky already applied with maximum force.
‘Right. Christ. Hang on.’
Tonto started to remove the chain and unlock the door. When he opened it, he was pale, confused and trying to work out why a man like Grainger would turn up at his place. He was framed in the doorway with only his vest and pants for cover. The circumstances were such that he’d lost the ability to move or speak, and Grainger almost found it amusing. This definitely wasn’t a fucking joke though and he put on a friendly grin to reassure the daft twat.
‘We can stand here all day, Davy, or maybe you can ask me in. If you were in trouble you’d be in a coma already, so relax, son.’
The sound of the conversation meant Mason knew he could nip up one flight of stairs. He always wore rubber soles for these situations, which he dealt with all the time, and though he struggled to control his breathing – the fags were taking their toll – he managed to keep it quiet enough not to attract any attention. He was pleased, because in next to no time he had discovered that whoever Grainger had gone to see was called Davy, hadn’t been expecting a call and was definitely on the third floor. That was all good as far as he was concerned. He took his time going back downstairs and out onto the street.
35
Tonto seemed to break out of the spell he was under, managed to say, ‘Oh, aye,’ and stood aside.
The place was more or less as Grainger had expected – in other words it was a tip – but he’d seen worse, and at least there were a couple of seats free of debris and clean enough to place the arse of his expensive suit on.
He saw Tonto’s phone on the coffee table and felt reassured it was where he could keep an eye on it till their business was done, just in case the boy decided to call one of his brothers. It lay among a collection of dead beer bottles, lighters, overflowing ashtrays and his keys, which were on a Jambo key ring.
Tonto said something about getting dressed and Grainger watched him through the open bedroom door as he pulled on a pair of jeans. He came back through and tried to light a cigarette, but his hands were shaking so much he was having a real problem.
Grainger picked up one of the half-dozen cheap lighters on the table, stood up and fired up the boy’s smoke. He had him under control; it was so far so good.
‘Make us a coffee, and relax, for fuck’s sake. Just want to discuss a bit of business with you. Hope I’m not keeping you back or anything? In fact, get yourself a drink of something.’
Tonto tried to smile and find the right words. It was as if the Jambos’ manager had arrived at the door and offered him a contract as their star player.
‘No problem, Mr Grainger. Got some nice stuff.’ It sounded comple
tely daft and how the fuck would someone like him have nice coffee?
He was still shaking like a 9 a.m. wino and dropped his cigarette on the way to the kitchen.
Watching him struggling to pick it up relaxed Grainger, who leaned back into his chair. This was exactly how he wanted it – the boy had been the right choice for what he’d planned.
Tonto managed to wash a couple of mugs, mix up a drinkable brew for Grainger and half-filled his cup with cheap whisky. After slugging a mouthful, he refilled his favourite but severely chipped Jambo mug. He looked a bit less robotic when he returned, and the whisky had already hit the spot, helped on by the fact that he’d hardly eaten anything for almost a day.
Tonto sat opposite a man who he regarded as in a different league. He hadn’t been killed, so it definitely was a bit of business. On top of it all, he was an agent for Police Scotland and a big man had just walked into his life – so it might be the equivalent of a lottery win. He imagined Janet Hadden’s coupon when he told her that he might get close to Dominic Grainger. That was right up to the point where Grainger told him he knew he was a fucking grass. It was confusing because he was smiling when he said it, as if he was really pleased.
Tonto’s voice turned into something close to a squeak, which in the circumstances was kind of appropriate. ‘Sorry, don’t know.’
He’d only got the three words out when Grainger leaned forward, stuck his hand up in a stop-right-there gesture and dropped the smile – because he had to take full control of the situation so they could get on with the business. ‘Shut the fuck up and take another drink.’
Tonto did as he was told and downed the lot.
‘Don’t lie. If you lie I’ll make sure your fingernails are pulled out one at a time before a blowtorch warms up your goolies. By the way, I also know who you’re grassing to. Bitch called Janet Hadden. Am I right or am I right?’
He sat back again; he didn’t anticipate a fight.
‘Empty the ashtray, Davy, for fuck’s sake, it’s annoying me.’
Grainger was just applying pressure, making the boy dance to his instructions; it was the equivalent of tying him up hand and foot so there was no way to escape.
Tonto went into robotic mode again and did exactly what he was told. His body was like ice and he was so frightened that, if Grainger had ordered him to, he would have done the Birdie Dance with a feather stuck up his arse for effect. He wasn’t being killed, but it was like being naked in front of a man who knew exactly what his big secret was, and he wondered how the fuck that had happened.
He picked up the ashtray, took it to the kitchen, emptied it and when he placed it back on the table, he sat down again, avoiding Grainger’s gaze. He tried to control his breathing, but it was difficult, and he wondered what the fuck he’d done to suffer what had happened since the thing with the mad Pole, Janet Hadden and now this crock of absolute vintage shite.
‘Now, I want to hear you say it. Once we clear that hurdle we can move on and, trust me, there’s a good offer on the table if you play your cards right.’
Grainger picked up his coffee and took a sip. He was enjoying the boy’s suffering.
The thing about Dominic Grainger that nobody, even his brothers, understood was that he was a sick bastard in his own right; it was just that he had the intelligence to realise that to succeed in business, he needed to play the diplomat more than was his true nature. He’d worked all his life to suppress his urges, and the only time they’d really surfaced was in private with a couple of pick-ups who he’d slapped about – nothing serious, but when he did it, somehow it felt good. Like something he’d missed all his life.
It had grown in him like a cancer. He couldn’t remember such feelings as a child, and it wasn’t till his late teens that he had the urge to cause pain, but he always had iron control. His brothers were violent time and time again, and Dominic knew it was a defect that might destroy them in the world they inhabited. The most successful gangsters applied violence when it was necessary and not as part of the fun. That was how his father-in-law had succeeded: he knew that violence played a crucial role in the game, and opponents and friends recognised that. The gangsters who worked for men like Big Arthur Hamilton followed him because they were loyal, apart from the wages, and if someone needed a tanking it was their own stupid fault.
‘Look, Mr Grainger, they had me wi’ the baws?’ Tonto started to shake again and was looking at Grainger for signs. Maybe it was a big lie just to get the confession and then the gorillas would walk in and pull out the pliers for some painful dental work with absolutely no anaesthetic. His speech was already slurring with the booze hit, but his mind was in overdrive.
‘Fair enough. That’s what I wanted to hear. Now you do know what’ll happen if Paul finds out?’ Grainger laughed, sounding friendly, like they were just chewing the fat because it was fun. ‘Paul suspects you already, and tell the truth, you’re walking a fine line. Now here’s the deal. Okay?’
‘I won’t let you down, Mr Grainger. I’m your man.’ Tonto would have done anything to please Grainger. There were a million questions in his head, but he knew enough about being a criminal that you should always shut the fuck up when the man with your balls in a vice wants to talk.
‘Right, the thing is that Paul’s causing me problems. He’s my brother, but he’s losing the plot. Agree?’
Tonto nodded, but then he wasn’t going to disagree. As it happened he did agree; indeed, everyone thought Paul was going off the end of the pier. He was a fucking radge, and if the rumours were true he was back on the nasal dust.
‘I want you to be my eyes and ears in Paul’s team so I know what’s going on. As regards the police, I’ll tell you what you tell them. Alright?’
Tonto said, ‘Definitely,’ and his spirits started to lift. The top man was handing him a job that could bring big points and everyone knew that points win prizes.
‘That’s one part of it, but there’s something else that needs done now, and I need someone I can trust. Can I trust you, Davy?’ He waited, knowing the poor bastard he was screwing into the carpet couldn’t refuse.
‘Absolutely, Mr Grainger.’ Tonto lit another cigarette and this time his hand was almost steady. It was like that moment after the cops had stuck the guns in the Pole’s phizog hardly a minute after he was about to be killed. Absolute elation. One moment you think the miserable existence that passes for your life is about to come to a violent end and then a guardian angel steps in – or in his case, heavily armed angels. He felt like it was a pal talking to him and maybe this was it, maybe this was the moment when a top dog would see his potential and everything would change for the better.
‘Now, here’s the thing.’ Grainger leaned forward and lowered his voice. Tonto’s heart beat a bit harder – the man was going to confide in him! ‘First things first, get yourself another drink.’
‘I’m fine, man – that stuff’s banged the brain already. Know what I mean?’
‘I want you to have another drink, Davy. You hear me? I want you nice and relaxed. We’re pals now.’
Tonto’s head was mince but he was buzzing, so he did as he was told, emptied the remains of the whisky into his cup and in the space of a few minutes he’d arsed nearly half a bottle. He grinned because this was beginning to look like it might work out in his favour. He saw Grainger had taken to smiling again, so it was all good so far.
‘Don’t know if you’re aware but the wife is doing my head in. Thing is, I like the girls just a wee bit too much. Know what I mean?’
‘Aye, tell me about it, Mr Grainger. Had my share.’ As far as Tonto was concerned they were definitely becoming pals. He nodded towards Grainger, acknowledging the burden the female gender imposed on the males of the species.
‘Well, she’s got the lawyers involved and tell the truth she wants the fucking lot. House and the suit off my back. It’s a sin. I’m fucked if I’ll let her walk away with it all. Spent a fortune on the bitch.’ Grainger swore more than usual beca
use that was the language in Tonto’s world.
‘Fuckin’ scandal, Mr Grainger.’
‘Call me Dominic.’
‘Cheers, Dominic.’ Tonto felt like he’d taken a Desperate Dan hit of smack. The top man had said ‘call me Dominic’. Fuck’s sake, he thought.
‘I’ve bought the bitch a fortune in jewellery and always thought it was a safe place to put some cash. Thing is, I want you to break in and chore the lot.’
He sat back because it was a simple enough job.
Tonto had been a pretty useful housebreaker in his teens and had a gift for it. He’d given that up when the old Lothian and Borders force had taken housebreaking seriously and started to hound the guys trying to make a dishonest living. At that point, he’d moved over to dealing dope, as the cops were taking less and less interest in street-level business.
The request put so casually threw him for a moment; he blinked a few times and his elation turned to momentary confusion. Being asked to break into Grainger’s gaff was the last thing he’d expected. His booze-addled brain was trying to make sense of it and decide whether it was a decent idea or a bit fucking mental.
‘No’ tryin’ tae tell ye yer business, Dominic, but couldn’t you just take it when she’s no’ in, or when she’s in for that matter?’ He hoped he hadn’t made a mistake questioning his new friend, but it seemed reasonable and sometimes even the bosses seemed to lack common sense.
‘Good question, Davy, but you know who her old man is?’ He nodded to his co-conspirator to emphasise the point. ‘She’s a fucking daddy’s girl by the way, and Big Arthur thinks the sun shines out of her arse. Know what I mean?’ He winked at Tonto to prove they were now mates.
Tonto knew exactly who her old man was. He’d never met Grainger’s wife or father-in-law, but everyone knew the reputation and legends. Big Arthur Hamilton was one of those characters from the past who couldn’t possibly have done everything that was alleged in the stories that had grown arms and legs over the years. That didn’t matter though – there was enough truth to establish him among the gangsters as a top man who’d had the nous and balls to branch off into a string of highly successful legal businesses. He got the point Grainger was making and didn’t need it to be explained. If he ripped the stuff out of her hands or fucked her around then her old man would definitely come out of retirement and there’d be casualties, whereas if a housebreaking took place then they might suspect, but they’d be able to prove fuck all. He nodded back to Grainger. ‘Understand, Dominic.’
Our Little Secrets Page 19