Our Little Secrets

by Peter Ritchie

  ‘There’s at least a hundred grand there. You retrieve that lot and there’s five grand for you. But it stays between us. No one else involved and definitely nothing to your police handler. Okay?’

  Five grand. Five fucking grand for a break-in that would probably take half an hour, and one of the owners was involved. That was serious money and would put him right onside with Dominic Grainger.

  ‘I can do that. Just need to work out a few details.’ Tonto felt nervous again but happy. Breaking into someone’s home always got the adrenalin active, but when it was a homer it was usually a piece of piss. He’d done a few in the past when punters had wanted to skin a few grand off the insurance, and it had been the easiest money he’d ever made.

  Grainger stuck his hand over the table. ‘Do we have a deal?’

  ‘No problem, Dominic. I’ll sort this one out for you.’ He took the man’s hand and felt a serious grip. Grainger fixed him with direct eye contact for a few seconds and Tonto thought he saw something he didn’t like – then it was gone.

  Grainger squeezed and watched the boy wince. ‘No one, but no one else hears about this or the deal is off and I throw you to Paul. We’re pals, so you can’t fuck this up.’

  Tonto nodded like a child trying to please an abusive parent.

  Grainger got up and said they could meet over the weekend and work it out. ‘Early next week for the job in case she moves the stuff out.’

  He was heading for the door when Tonto asked him the one question that he couldn’t just leave.

  ‘So, how did ye know about me and the bizzies?’ He felt his stomach grip because he probably shouldn’t have asked.

  ‘I’m a businessman, son, and have contacts everywhere. That includes inside the bizzies. Life’s a bitch, eh, Davy?’

  Tonto might have been half-pissed but he knew Grainger was right: life’s a bitch and no one had to remind him of that particular no-brainer.

  Grainger stopped at the bottom of the stairs and took Tonto’s keys out of his pocket. He knew he’d been too pissed to notice but would definitely miss them in the morning. It was a slight gamble but a drinker like Tonto, a guy who lived alone and in a midden, would lose stuff all the time. Plus, the chances were he’d have a spare. In any case, he’d have a copy made first thing and put them somewhere it would look like they’d been dropped. It was just a case of waiting till the boy left his flat in the morning. Grainger was sure that the first thing he’d do now was head out for even more bevvy so his head still wouldn’t be clear in the morning. That’s how the workers lived: shit lives with shit prospects and bosses who didn’t give a fuck whether they lived or died.

  He stuck the keys in his pocket and was sure the only thing he’d touched in the flat was the coffee mug. He would make sure to clean it when he came back the next day.

  36

  Frankie Mason watched Grainger step back onto the street and look both ways before heading back to where he’d parked his car. He threw his cigarette into the gutter, cursing the cold shower that had started to piss down and soak the thin jacket he was wearing, then crossed the road, went back into the close and started climbing the stairs as quietly and slowly as possible. It was Sod’s Law but no reason to panic when he reached the second landing and heard the door upstairs opening. Whoever it was, they were coming down fast so it was too late to simply turn and do a runner. He walked up to one of the doors and stood his ground, waited till the last possible moment and rang the doorbell. Tonto ignored him on the way past and was on his way out onto the street when the door was answered by an old guy who was pissed out of his skull from a morning session.

  ‘What the fuck ye want?’ He looked angry, as if he had something more important to do.

  ‘Sorry, got the wrong door, pal.’ Mason said it over his shoulder as he headed upstairs, but the old guy wasn’t amused.

  ‘Come back here, ya bastard, I’ll kick yer fuckin’ heid in.’

  Mason ignored it – it was just another old piss artist dreaming about past glories.

  When he stepped onto the third-floor landing he saw one door seemed to have been patched up and there was no name that he could see. The other door had a piece of cardboard displaying Tonto’s name and his allegiance to the Jambos. He was sure it was the flat that side anyway from the brief conversation he’d heard.

  He stood for a minute and just listened, but he couldn’t hear a sound. Davy McGill. The name sounded familiar, but that was the trouble with his line of work – he heard names all the time, and it was difficult to work out who was who. This was a piece of cake though; it was a shit close and the cardboard nameplate meant the tenant wasn’t in the top one hundred rich list. Probably some guffy. He’d soon track down who it was.

  He was pleased but asked himself the same question he was asking all the time with this job. Why the fuck was Dominic Grainger surprising some low life at his door?

  He walked slowly back downstairs wondering what he should do for his next move.

  The old piss artist was waiting for him; he’d decided he had a score to settle with the stranger who’d disturbed him. He couldn’t remember what the problem was, but it didn’t matter. He was behind his door and had left it open just a few inches as he got ready for action. He slugged what was left in the bottle and gripped it by the neck. ‘I’ll fuckin’ show the bastard,’ he mumbled.

  Mason was too preoccupied and slow to react to something he should have seen coming. He was just past the piss artist’s door and ready to hit the next set of steps when he heard, ‘Right, ya bastard,’ as the old boy came at him from behind. Luckily his swipe with the bottle missed the back of Mason’s skull and connected with his right shoulder. It might not have bothered him too much in his younger day, but there wasn’t so much muscle there now to take the blow and it hurt without breaking anything.

  ‘What the fuck?’ He turned to see the old boy had landed on his arse with the force of the swing and the fact that he was rat-arsed.

  ‘C’mon, ya crappin’ bastard.’

  The old boy tried to get to his feet, but Mason had recovered himself and shook his head. He stepped back a pace, took careful aim and kicked the old boy in the gut. He folded up on the stair and said, ‘Oh ya,’ and lay still. Mason quite enjoyed the diversion despite the pain – it had been a long time since he’d won any kind of combat operation.

  He felt that was enough action and headed downstairs again. He was about to step outside when he heard the shout from upstairs.

  ‘Come back – I’ll fuckin’ murder ye.’

  Mason thought about going back up and doing the boy again but shook his head and stepped out onto the street.

  Sometimes luck just falls in your lap and the guy he presumed was Davy McGill was chewing the fat with a couple of boys no more than a hundred yards from the stair door. It looked like one of those everyday chance meetings, but it suited Mason just fine. He saw them shake hands then Tonto headed towards town and Mason followed on. There was nothing to lose by staying with him for a short time. He had to be careful; he wasn’t sure if the boy had taken much notice of him, but he was confident he hadn’t. He’d looked preoccupied on the stair and that might have something to do with Grainger and what had obviously been a surprise visit.

  It was an easy bit of work in the end and Tonto dived into a boozer no more than a five-minute walk from his flat. Mason knew it well enough and had sunk a few there in his time: working class, definitely not the high pretension of George Street drinkers. This was what was left of old Edinburgh’s drinking culture. Jambo territory with cheap enough beer, the conversation was rough and the piss-taking only for the thickest skins.

  Mason thought about it for a few minutes, trying to figure out what exactly he was trying to achieve. That was the problem – he hadn’t a fucking clue, just the undeniable attraction that he was doing what he liked best, looking under stones at what was crawling about in the dark.

  ‘Who dares wins, Frankie boy.’ He grinned, thinking about the old
piss artist on the stair. He could see the funny side of it now.

  He pushed open the doors to the bar and because he knew the layout he headed for the far end, which gave him a good eyeball on the place, who was there and whatever else because he still had no idea what the plan was. This one was definitely suck it and see.

  There was no sign of the boy, which meant he had to have gone straight to the cludgie. There was nowhere else.

  He was on the money – he’d just been served a decent pint when Tonto emerged from the men’s and headed for the opposite end of the bar to join a couple of boys straight out of the same tin.

  Mason shifted to an empty table with just as good a view, pulled out his newspaper and settled down to watch for a while and keep his ears open. It was unlikely the guy would do anything but get pissed, but it didn’t matter. By the time he was finished, he would know how the boy acted, his mannerisms, his walk, and who knew what else might come up once he’d had few drinks.

  That was the first point of interest: Tonto started to pack away the bevvy as if there was no tomorrow and he heard his mates comment on it. He speculated again that Grainger’s surprise visit might be something to do with the boy’s rush to get rat-arsed. It was impressive – after the first three pints he started on shorts, and Mason saw him squeeze in another quick short at the bar when he was buying his round.

  Mason enjoyed the beer but took it easy. By the time he’d read his paper it was decision time and he didn’t want to just stare at the boy getting pissed. Mason saw an opportunity coming up – Tonto’s two mates looked fed up with him because he was really too far on and starting to talk shite. They left him propped up on the bar talking to some of the locals, who’d listen for a while then quietly move to another part of the boozer or leave. The barman was getting fed up with him as well, and Mason decided to make his move. He finished his beer, walked to the large space at the bar next to Tonto and ordered a fresh one.

  It was like taking sweets from a baby – all Mason had to do was listen to the twat talking shite. They were best pals in half an hour, or at least that’s what Tonto and his overheated brain thought.

  Once Tonto tried to impress him with the fact that he’d done time, Mason told him he’d done three stretches in Bar L. It made Tonto’s night – he was new best pals with an older gangster.

  The next hour gave Mason all the background he could have asked for but not a link to Dominic Grainger. When he managed to steer him towards what he was doing for a living, Tonto went off on a tangent and seemed to be completely wound up about Celtic and their fans. Mason knew he just had to be patient. He was tired but decided to stick with it, and when he suggested they get ‘a wee carry out’, Tonto looked delighted.

  ‘Great idea, Shug.’ Mason had told his name was Shug Gardner. ‘Flat’s just along the road. We’ll get some beers an’ a bag o’ chips. What dae ye say, pal?’

  ‘Great idea, Davy. Fuckin’ nice one, pal.’ Mason wondered why the fuck a smart face like Dominic Grainger would get involved with this boy.

  It took an hour and a half of listening to absolute shite in Tonto’s flat before Mason got the link. It wasn’t much but enough. He tried time and time again to steer the conversation towards whatever the boy was doing to earn, then it came as Tonto tried his best to impress his new pal.

  ‘Look, Shug. I work for the top team, awright?’ He was starting to slur and Mason was on the point of heading home.

  ‘Right, son, good for you. Had a feelin’ you were nae mug.’ He sighed, struggling to stay interested. Maybe this had all been a waste of time.

  ‘I’m a right-hand man for the Graingers. Paul an’ me are like that.’ He tried to entwine his fore and middle finger but struggled to make it work.

  That made the trip worth it and Mason grinned. ‘Nice one. Hear a lot about them but don’t know those boys. There’s three of them though, eh?’

  Tonto tried to focus. Sober he would have heard alarm bells, but he was too far gone.

  ‘Naw, it’s Paul an’ Sean I work for. They’re no’ gettin’ on wi’ the top boy Dominic. Dinnae mention that though, Shug – know what I mean?’ He tried to make the cut-throat sign with his finger, laid his cigarette in the ashtray, leaned back and was fast asleep and snoring in seconds.

  Mason stubbed out Tonto’s cigarette and stood up. It had been worth it. There was a puzzle but clues within it, and what had been said filled in a few corners. The boy worked for the Graingers but not Dominic.

  He had a look round the flat. There was nothing too interesting and minimalist didn’t quite describe the decor. The only area that seemed busy was the overflowing coffee table. There was a notepad and what seemed to be Tonto’s tick list, with deals and money owed by the junkies he dealt to.

  Mason’s eye was drawn to the bottom half where a telephone number had been scribbled recently. He guessed it was a recent scribble because the pen was lying on top of the number and nothing would have lain on that table for long without being moved around for the next beer bottle or chip paper.

  For a moment, he thought he recognised the number then realised it was Dominic’s from the phone records. He made a note anyway and stuffed it in his top pocket.

  Tonto was snoring for Scotland now and Mason wondered how much the boy would actually remember about him the next day. He almost felt sorry for him; he saw so many of these young men who took all the risks for the top gangsters yet still ended up broken in health or spirit, half the time doing long stretches they couldn’t cope with any more. It wasn’t his problem though.

  He looked round the flat again to make sure there was nothing he’d missed that might come in handy. It had been a decent day’s work but the feeling that he was walking into the wrong territory was annoying his gut like a bad curry.

  When he stepped out onto the street he took a couple of deep breaths. He felt absolutely knackered and wanted to get back to his own place.

  When he opened the door to his flat he headed straight for the fridge and pulled out a beer. He was choking for a cold one. He sat back on his seat and ignored the TV remote for a change. His head was swimming and his gut hurt like fuck.

  ‘Jesus, I’m gettin’ old,’ he muttered.

  Tonto’s face came into his thoughts and he ran a number of scenarios through his head about what the fuck Dominic Grainger was up to, but nothing quite fitted.

  For the first time in an age Frankie Mason never finished his beer and didn’t even bother with a last smoke of the day, which had always been one of his limited pleasures. He fell asleep, exhausted.

  37

  Sometimes shit just happens, nothing to do with the stars aligning in a certain way or the gods ordaining that the fate of a number of human beings in Edinburgh should move at their discretion. It just happened that on one of those days, Jacquie Bell felt she needed a new story to bite into and decided to call round some of her contacts to see what was grubbing about in the undergrowth of Edinburgh’s dark corners. It was good tradecraft for a journalist, but it started a chain reaction that no one could control.

  Mason loved it when he saw something in the media that he’d dropped their way or sold depending on the paper concerned. He thought it was only right to take payment for the odd bit of sleaze or red-hot inside info. When it came to the quality stuff, he was careful to feed only one reporter and that was Jacquie Bell. She was the most respected crime reporter in Scotland and, for a few gangsters, bent civil servants and local politicians, the most hated. She was relentless when she sensed that a story had legs, and over the years Bell had invested in making contacts from all levels including public life. Her great strength was that she made whoever she was talking to feel like they were all hers, and stunning, almost Mediterranean looks helped where charm or a few notes alone hadn’t always worked. Every boss she’d had worried about how far she pushed in doors, and there had been enough threats to make most men in the trade look for a job with a lot less risk. But her confidence was endless, and when she’d had to f
ace the bad men, she’d done it and survived. They might not have liked her, but they had to respect her.

  She’d known Mason for years, and they’d traded secrets that benefited them both one way or another. The advantage for her was that like a few of her sources, he imagined them together. Not something that was ever going to happen, and for Mason it was rare because he never really cared that much about the opposite sex in an emotional way. Much of that attitude was due to a mother from Hell and the fact that almost all the women he interacted with were paid for their services.

  Jacquie Bell was different and stirred something deep within him. He was streetwise enough for half a dozen people and knew she was never going to slip between the sheets with him, but it didn’t change his desire. She made him realise why lonely fuckers took up stalking, and he had to suppress the drive to find out more about her, watch her house, see who or what was in her life that she cared about. Fortunately, survival was an even stronger instinct in him and he fought those thoughts that would never be anything more than fantasies. That was as far as he took it, apart from pretending it was Bell when his hookers were bringing him to a happy ending.

  When the phone rang too late that night he groaned, thinking it was Arthur Hamilton again, but he felt his heart pick up the pace when he heard her voice. She was like the big man in that respect in that she didn’t seem to live in the same time zones as other people. When she was on her game, she forgot all about time or that other people had lives.