Where No Shadows Fall

by Peter Ritchie

  Frankie’s youngest brother, Alan, had been in the room with him for over an hour and had hardly spoken a word, letting his older brother think through their problems before he dished out the orders. He was watching the game on the telly in the corner with the sound down, and Frankie eventually got up from his chair, sat down in the one next to his brother and asked what the score was, although with all the other problems to sort it wasn’t his top priority.

  Alan knew his brother was ready to talk it through now and switched the box off.

  ‘I never should have brought Psycho back, Alan. Big mistake and down to me.’ He looked like making that call genuinely troubled him, but it was what it was. He shook his head a couple of times and got on with covering all bases.

  ‘As far as I can see we should be able to dampen this down. Psycho’s toast so that’s sorted and saves us a job. The way Abe was talking on the blower he had nothing to do with slicing up the boy. Christ knows what that was all about. I’ve called our brief and he’s on the case with Abe, but we don’t know what they have on him so we’ll have to wait and see.’ He stopped for a moment and drifted off into his thoughts again.

  ‘Need me to do anythin’?’ Alan wanted to help his brother, who’d always treated him well and made allowances for his quiet nature.

  ‘The number-one problem is that we’re leaking somewhere. There was this message to the boy when our guys were about to lift him. I could live with that – it might just be a slip somewhere. Thing is, how did the fuckin’ cavalry arrive at Bellshill? It means there’s a rat, or we’re bugged or whatever the fuck. Until we figure that out, we have to put everything on hold as far as possible. Okay?’ Alan nodded and waited. ‘We still need to finish this thing with Big Brenda though. We didn’t get the story, but we go ahead anyway. Not how I wanted it but needs must.’

  ‘Want me to do it?’

  Frankie looked at his younger brother – the offer exposed the other man’s lack of savvy when it came to these situations. ‘No way, Al. There might be surveillance teams all over us at the moment. I want you to go down to our friends in Liverpool and contract the job out to them. We’ve done it for them, and Christ knows they’ve enough professionals on their books to do this one. Tell them we’ll pay up front or whatever arrangement they fancy. Just get it done. We need to get this woman sorted and out of the road. Forget everything else at the moment and let me know the details when you’ve spoken to them.’

  ‘You want me to go today?’ Alan was happy with the idea of a trip away from the city and avoiding the next couple of days, which would be nothing but stress and trying to avoid the law crashing through the front door.

  ‘I want you on the next train. Now stick some clean undies in a bag and get moving.’

  At 2 a.m. on Sunday morning Tony Slaven was contacted by the CHIS codenamed Jigsaw who confirmed that the Logans were going to put a contract job on Big Brenda. A Scouse team of desperadoes would probably take it on and work out a plan. He said they wanted it done as soon as they could find her, which might still be a problem. Slaven cursed the news because there were protocols to follow when there was a threat to life, even if that life was Big Brenda McMartin. He called MacKay because he didn’t really have a choice. MacKay knew there was a way out though, because the intelligence was that Brenda was keeping her head down. There was information that she had a safe house, but they had no idea where that might be. That would do nicely for the time being.

  ‘Can’t warn her if we can’t find her, Tony.’ MacKay didn’t need the news but they’d have to appear to be trying to trace her. ‘Put it on the system but leave it meantime. Other stuff to do.’ He grimaced. ‘Human rights – they’ll be the fuckin’ ruination of this country. Put a report in requesting any sightings of Brenda and make it look like we’re trying to track her down. Get back to Jigsaw and tell him to keep in touch if there are any updates.’

  Big Brenda McMartin was safely outside the city in a small two-bedroomed cottage she’d bought years before. It was somewhere she could be well away from all the people who she had to work with but couldn’t really stand and was the one place she had any form of peace. It also had the benefit of being detached, which kept the nosey bastards around her out of sight. It had always been possible that it could be handy for a safe house; nevertheless, it was still a blow to her that at last this was what it had become.

  She’d heard the reports on the Bellshill incident and knew too well that she was knee-deep in shit, and where could she go now? Woods was dead and must have talked first. McManus had joined him, which was the only good news. She had no reason to shed a tear for them, but the message was clear. This was the last line, and she knew that sometime in the next few days they’d find her and that then she could stop thinking about the past and those nightmares that made her whole body spasm in the night, leaving her weak and moaning into the pillow.

  She’d hardly moved from her chair in hours. Every few minutes she glanced down at the sawn-off on the stool next to her. Within her reach but out of sight to anyone else who might come into the room, it was the only friend she had now.

  She was stuffing her face with coffee, energy drinks and a bag of legal highs to keep her awake. The combination made her feel like shit, but then that was nothing new. And although she knew it wouldn’t stop what was bound to happen in the end, she was determined to look the bastard in the face when the time came. Despite the poisons she was pouring into her bloodstream, she fell asleep and dreamt about her father, Slab McMartin. That hadn’t happened for many years and she was shaking when she sat up and checked the shadows in the room. Nothing came at her, but she knew it was just a matter of time.

  42

  Sometimes he saw flashes, almost like subliminal messages crackling across a TV monitor. He was getting anxious now that, with the years, disease was taking hold and he’d google words like Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s and neurological horrors that might leave him needing the support of other people for the first time in his life.

  It was strange, because he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so physically strong. Seeing Grace Macallan made his skin tingle with energy. It was as if all his years of success were just faded dreams where he struggled to remember what had happened. He couldn’t recall the details, just that he’d conquered everything and everyone who’d stood in his way.

  The next step was a risk, but he wanted to see her life up close, to touch the fabric on her favourite seat, the place where she read, watched her favourite soaps, where she talked to her friends on the phone and laughed or frowned at all the latest gossip. Her books would tell him what interested her, what stirred her emotions and perhaps made her cry. The problem of how to get into the house gnawed at his bones. In the end there looked to be only one possibility: a small window that looked old could be the weak point. There was no other way, and he thought it could probably be forced with the minimum of effort.

  The window was tiny and about five feet above the roof of a ground-floor extension. It was all that was left of an original pantry, but he was so thin now that he thought it might just be possible. The thought of being inside her home almost made him sick with the thrill of discovering who she was in her private life and perhaps identifying where she was vulnerable. The waiting was over and it was time to move.

  High walls enclosed the garden and protected it from prying eyes, and even in the dull morning light the man concealed in the shrub border could move with relative confidence that no one was going to see what he was doing. He struggled to climb onto the roof and felt his heart shudder when he tried to push the window up. The disappointment he experienced when he found the window was firmly closed was a physical ache. He’d come too far to retreat, and it needed a change of plan and nerve. Being an intelligent man with nothing to lose, he pulled the leather gloves tightly over his hands and carefully punched in the old glass. The window was ancient, and the small pane gave easily. He managed to push his arm through and push the catch over.

/>   Getting through the narrow window drained what was left of his strength, so when he made it, he sat on the floor just inside the window and waited a full ten minutes till he felt like he could get to his feet without collapsing again. The rising excitement of what he’d managed to do brought him back to life and he opened the door into the hall, tipped his head back and pulled in the still air of the house through his nose. There was a very faint scent of perfume and flowers. The paintings in the hall were abstract and full of colour that seemed to almost ring from the canvas. The paintwork and carpets were subtle, letting the artwork catch the visitor’s attention. He smiled at the thought that the woman who lived in this house had so much talent and an eye for decoration.

  The sitting-room door was half open, and he paused before entering with one slow step at a time, making sure he disturbed as little as possible. The room was like the hall – spare, but every piece of furniture and the ornaments worked together as if they had been designed by a professional. It was strange and not what he’d expected of the woman he’d only known under the wrong circumstances.

  He knew there was more to the house than the hand of a professional – it had someone’s touch. It was in the small things: the pictures of other people, friends laughing, a bowl full of pine cones that he guessed had been gathered during a walk. The more he saw of her world, the less he understood. He’d expected the drab loneliness of someone who lived alone, discarded fast-food cartons or an unwashed wine glass with the dregs souring in the bottom. He recognised what must be her favourite seat, directly opposite the TV, a telephone on a small table next to the chair, accompanied by a couple of thumbed magazines and the previous day’s Herald. There were shelves of books, and he could see that she loved history, though nothing too heavy, and there were enough travel books to fill a small shop. He knew she would be a traveller; it fitted with everything he’d seen so far – the modern professional woman who saw horizons as just something else to be crossed.

  He sat back in the chair and felt close to her. There was a worn patch on the arm where she must have rested her hand and arm, night after night. He put his arm there, closed his eyes and imagined being there, that it was his home and his chair.

  He stopped at the bedroom door but he had to see it: the place where she slept. Where she felt safe and warm.

  The bedroom was as tidy as the rest of the house, and his heart thumped when he saw the two rag dolls in pride of place on a dressing table. The picture next to her bed, however, stopped him in his tracks. His skin froze at the sight of the man with his arm round her, their heads together. It made his throat close as if a ligature had been applied. A man in her life? Then he scanned round and saw the pictures of the children, and another of them with the children, and he started to heave in panic, dropping to his knees. It had never crossed his mind and it puzzled him. It was as if he’d discovered some foul little secret hidden there. A man in her life altered everything. What would it mean? The idea of sharing her was not what had kept him going as he’d shivered in the dark garden night after night. She had all the things his daughter could never have now and he realised how it had to play out.

  He sat back down in the sitting room and looked up an emergency glazier. ‘It’s my daughter’s house and she’s going on holiday today so I need it done now. I’ll pay whatever it takes.’

  That offer was good enough for the glazier, who would have happily done it for the normal price. He knew the area and just wrote it off as some middle-class twat with more money than sense.

  The guy did the job in an hour and tried to sell the client new windows. ‘Not perfect, mate – those windows are Stone Age. I’ll leave my card if your daughter fancies some new ones. A kid could break in through these.’

  After the glazier left with the cash in his hand, he went through to the old pantry and cleaned it up as far as possible. There was a difference in the new glass but the old room seemed to be used as a glory hole so it might never be spotted.

  He left through the front door half an hour later. Everything was going well, and having the balls to get someone to repair the window had given him a buzz and a half.

  43

  Macallan woke early with the sun streaming through the blinds, and she felt as if she’d slept for two days. The sleep had been a deep black world where there was no need to dream, only rest, and as soon as she opened her eyes, fresh energy started to flow – all she wanted to do was haul Jack out of bed to get the day going. Talking to him had made her feel a little guilty, because she’d been prepared to spin him a story, and all the time he’d been way ahead of her. She’d always known he was a formidable lawyer, and now she realised he would be a formidable husband. It worried her for a moment that she’d been prepared to deny him the truth to get what she wanted, and she wondered what that said about her.

  But Macallan put the thoughts out of her mind and poked Jack in the ribs. It was a glorious Sunday morning, she could hear the kids were wide awake and she wasn’t going to waste a second. It was the one morning of the week where all thoughts of their regular morning meal of porridge and fruit went out of the window, replaced by the famous but potentially fatal Ulster fry. She could almost smell the bacon before it was on.

  Jack opened his eyes and pulled her in close, but she told him to wait and brought the children through so the four of them could start the day in a tangle of arms and legs. She wanted to put everything about work out of her head and concentrate on her family for the rest of the day. Macallan was due to meet McGovern at Glasgow Airport in the morning so they could see MacKay and, if it was possible, Slab McMartin – although whether the old gangster would speak to them was another matter.

  At the same time Macallan and Fraser sat down at the ancient wooden table in the kitchen, Jimmy Adams stepped out of the bakers with his morning rolls and the Sunday papers. He was in St Monans, a picture-postcard fishing village on the East Neuk of Fife. It was part of that glorious trail of land between the little harbour at Elie running along the north corner of the Firth of Forth to the ancient university town of St Andrews, one of the oldest seats of learning on the British mainland. Good enough for royals to send their son and the place where Alex Salmond had proved he had a head for figures.

  In one short week, life for Adams, or just Glasgow Jimmy as some of the locals had come to know him, had changed completely. He’d spent time at his sister’s before, but the calm routine of ordinary lives had frightened him off and he’d always been convinced he couldn’t live like a normal punter. Now there was nothing he wanted more. He wanted to be almost invisible, just a guy who’d come to live with his sister, liked the odd beer and was keen to take in whatever game was on at the boozer. His sister was over the moon that he was there, having been lonely since her husband had died suddenly a couple of years before. Her husband had been a deep-sea fisherman and had met her one day when he was in Glasgow to watch his beloved Dunfermline FC play Rangers. He’d ordered a fish supper after the game and she’d served him, he’d smiled at her with warm eyes and she’d smiled back. It had been that simple.

  Adams and his sister had been brought up in a tough time but had parents who’d taught them to love each other, and even when Wee Jimmy, as they’d known him, had started to run with the gangs, they’d forgiven him, because they’d never seen what he was capable of. Their parents were long gone now, and his sister had never been able to have children, so he was all she had left.

  Adams walked into the kitchen, laid the rolls down on the table and almost dribbled at the smell of bacon and eggs. For most of his adult years all he would eat in the morning was a jam sandwich, depending on how late he’d gone to bed. It occurred to him that so much of his life had been lived in the night and there was almost nothing he could remember that could be described as a good morning. In his glory days, if he wasn’t working, he’d be out all night: booze, short meaningless relationships and talking crime with his mates. Whatever they wanted they took and, when Slab was top man, everywhere they we
nt people stepped out of the way or served them whatever they wanted, and of course there had never been a charge. But that was gone now, as if it had all happened to someone else.

  His sister told him to put the news on the telly, sit down and she’d bring his rolls to him so he could read the Sundays in peace.

  Adams settled back into the comfortably upholstered settee, closed his eyes and enjoyed that wonderful moment when he thought that all he needed to do that day was whatever he wanted. It was that easy. His sister wanted him to cut the grass then he could have a wee snooze and walk down to the pub for the big game later in the afternoon. She was making a roast for dinner, and then they’d be glued to the box for a few hours.

  He did the sports pages and avoided politics as far as possible, although it was hard not to shake his head in wonder that wee Nicola had managed to sink the boot into old Labour so thoroughly. In his family, if someone had suggested a vote other than for Labour they would have ordered the chuckle wagon, but times were changing fast, and the old world he’d inhabited was nearly gone. The gangsters were all bastards now – no shred of morality however skewed – and, like business empires, only driven by profit.