Where No Shadows Fall

by Peter Ritchie

  He turned over a couple of pages, barely reading what was in front of him because he didn’t want to see any more bad news about floods of immigrants or terrorist attacks. He was a gangster who’d never been frightened of anyone, but the rolling depressing news from across the world did nothing but flatten him and was another reminder that so much that had been accepted as the norm when he was a young man was gone. He was glad he didn’t have any children to worry about.

  His eye caught Jacquie Bell’s report on the problems in the prison service. With his career background this was something that interested him, so he settled back and read every word. The article included the information that Macallan was reviewing the circumstances of Tommy McMartin’s death and that there were concerns over what had happened to him before his suicide. Adams was hardly aware of his sister coming in with a heaped plate of rolls that would have fed three men. The second time she said his name he broke out of his train of thought and looked up as if he was seeing her for the first time.

  ‘You okay?’ She put her hand on his shoulder; there was something in his eyes that worried her. She hadn’t asked him why he’d suddenly arrived and stayed. She didn’t want to know and just hoped his past life would stay where it was and leave them alone.

  He nodded absently and was beginning to munch on the first of the rolls when the Scottish news came on the box, and he gradually stopped chewing when the Bellshill incident was reported. They’d released the victim’s name and a picture of Woods flashed up on the screen. By the time the reporter had described McManus as having been shot dead by a police marksman, breakfast had been forgotten. One unnamed man had been arrested at the scene and the investigation was ongoing. It was too much for Adams to get his head round – there was so much he didn’t know, and it was impossible to work out what it all meant for him.

  He told his sister he was going out for a while and headed for the harbour, as it was a good place to think. She stood at the door and watched him walk away with the feeling that the past had come back to him again.

  The newly retired gangster stared at the boats bouncing around on the fresh south-easterly wind blowing off the North Sea. The sun warmed his back and the breeze cooled his face. ‘Christ, I’m an old man,’ he said into the breeze and the words disappeared as they left his lips.

  He hardly moved for a couple of hours then headed for the pub and ordered a beer. He didn’t drink too much these days. Not because he wouldn’t have liked to, but unfortunately his digestive system gave him hell if he overindulged.

  He watched part of the early kick-off, but it hardly registered, and after about one mouthful of his second pint he nodded to the barman and headed back to his sister’s.

  When he opened the door, he stood motionless for a moment, and she did her best not to show concern even though it was there, burning in her stomach. Jimmy was all she had left. ‘Will I make a pot, Jimmy?’ She turned away from him and switched on the kettle without waiting for an answer. Jimmy never refused tea.

  ‘We need to sit down, hen. Need to explain a couple of things to you.’ Adams had already admitted that he was worth nothing and meant nothing. All the old glories were long gone. There was no ex like an ex-gangster, and the young climbers didn’t give a fuck who could piss the furthest twenty years ago. He had no idea what the events at Bellshill would trigger in the way of a reaction from the Logans, Big Brenda or the law. McManus was off the pitch and one less problem to worry about, but he’d got to Woods, so what did that mean? It didn’t really matter because all the options were bad if they came for him. Anywhere else, well he was almost past caring, but he was living in the home of the one person who still meant something to him and the one person who cared about him. He couldn’t bring any of it to her door and knew he’d been kidding himself that it might all go away.

  ‘I need to leave again, hen. Want to stay, believe me, but there might be a bit of trouble and I need to take care of it before it takes care of me, if you know what I mean.’

  She pleaded with him, but he knew that she couldn’t even imagine in her worst nightmares what the bad men might do – and if she was in the way then they’d just hurt her as well. No problem for them.

  He did something he’d never done in their lives and put his arms round her as her shoulders shuddered with the grief of losing someone again.

  He made her sit down and told her probably more than she needed to know so that she might understand, because he guessed he might be the next item on the Scottish news. There was more though, and it all came on top of Tommy McMartin’s suicide and Jacquie Bell’s story. What had happened to Tommy, and what he knew about it, had gnawed at his gut like an ulcer for years, and he could never resolve why it had all panned out the way it had. Maybe it was time to make things right; maybe that was the only way he could survive and have a chance at that anonymous life he craved.

  His sister listened and nodded occasionally. She took his hand. ‘Go an’ sort this out, Jimmy. Do whatever you need to do and your room’ll be ready for you. Okay?’

  He nodded, went to his room and called the police to try and get in touch with Superintendent Macallan.

  It was one of those strange quirks of life that Adams was a nobody, and for the real players he would have been forgotten about, seeing as he was no threat to anyone anymore. The Logans had more to do than hunt down an old man, and while Brenda was a threat, her destiny was heading in another direction.

  44

  Later on that busy Sunday afternoon, at about the same time Adams took his decision, Alan Logan was sitting across the table from Terry Norman, a top man with his own organisation and a big player on Merseyside. His brother-in-law was the head of the team but never did face-to-face business because he knew he was a priority target for an NCA operation that had been trying for years to nail him down. They were allies of the Logans and had done a lot of business over the years; Frankie’s nous for politics and strategy kept things sweet between them when most such arrangements tended to end up in blood feuds or at least in a severing of relationships. It was a truly free market they operated in, so competitors could go where they liked without a single lawful regulation holding them back. Somehow the Logans and Scousers made it work.

  Norman was a bit of an enigma, and much of that was to do with his appearance. There was no doubting his skill as a gangster – he’d proved himself time and time again as a resourceful and clever operator who rarely put a foot wrong in the business – but when people met him for the first time they couldn’t quite work out whether it was some stupid joke or piss-take. He dressed and spoke like the Scouse character Harry Enfield did so well and ticked every box in the Liverpool book of clichés. He had it all: the perm, the Freddie Mercury moustache and enough chunky jewellery to sink a small boat. It wasn’t a joke though – he genuinely liked the look and saw it as part of his rich heritage. As far as he was concerned Liverpool was the centre of the world, and he had a particular hatred for ‘southern poofs’. He normally refused to do business with anyone from ‘that London’ unless it was to rip the arse out of them.

  That particular prejudice against East Enders came from a meeting they’d had a couple of years earlier where a Cockney wanker had pissed himself laughing when introduced to Terry for the first time. The Londoner had wanted access to the Scousers’ connections in South America and ended up in intensive care with injuries the admitting doctor thought were the result of a bad car accident. No one from London ever laughed at Terry Norman again.

  ‘Erm, what can I do for you, lad?’ he asked Logan.

  Logan explained exactly what the score was and that payment was not a problem. If they did it, Frankie would return the favour in full, though he explained that they might have some attention from the bizzies and needed to stay off the front line for a while till it settled down again.

  ‘That’s sound. These things happen in our business, and it’s better to be careful, like. Leave the details with us and we’ll see what we can do. Erm, I take
it you know where we can find her?’

  ‘Not yet, but our friends in the force will let us know as soon as they trace her. Might take a bit of time but you’ll get it as soon as we have it.’

  ‘No problem.’ Norman thought for a minute and smiled broadly, showing the gold tooth that dominated the front of his mouth. ‘We’ve got a Jock who works for us and is the absolute business. He looks like he’s a fuckin’ blert, like, but he’s a Rottweiler when there’s action. To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t fancy the cunt meself.’ He pissed himself laughing; the minders behind him performed their duty and laughed at the same time, although it wasn’t even that funny.

  ‘“Cue Ball” Ross. You might have heard of him? Got him working over in, erm, Holland at the moment, like, but I’ll get him back. He’ll enjoy a trip to the old country.’

  Logan had heard the name but couldn’t remember the story. If he had he would have recognised one of those coincidences that do happen in the strangest circumstances. Cue Ball had been an Edinburgh criminal with a flair for violence, had met Brenda McMartin before and had put her in the hospital after she’d tried to take the man Cue Ball was minding at the time. He’d made a mess of her, but the McMartins were still a power at that time so he’d done the wise thing and headed over the border. He’d doubted he’d ever be able to go back, because having the gall to reupholster a McMartin had been a capital offence at the time.

  While a couple of his lads took Logan out on the town, Norman made the call to Amsterdam and got Cue Ball on the second ring. He was having a drink with his girlfriend near the red-light district at the time, and although he liked the life in Holland, he did miss Edinburgh and wished he could get back to see a bit of the old city. When Norman explained what the job was he nodded a few times, and then shook his head when he heard the name of the target.

  ‘Well I’ll be fucked.’ He sat back and pictured the scene when he’d lost part of his ear to the woman. ‘Know her well, pal, and let’s just say she needed a few repairs the last time we met. I’ll do the job, no problem.’

  Logan was sticking money into a pole dancer’s only item of clothing when he got the call from Norman confirming that the man for the job would be in Glasgow as soon as he could get across. He’d wait till there was a confirmed location for the target and get the job done in no time.

  ‘It’ll be a pleasure to help you out with this, Al.’

  Norman put the phone down and turned on ‘Ferry Cross the Mersey’. He loved that song; it made him sure he was graced to be a Scouser.

  45

  Macallan was almost asleep when her phone drew her back from a long drift downwards into a peaceful darkness. She was annoyed because she and Jack had made a house rule that phones were switched off after eight, and she’d clearly forgotten to do the necessary.

  She pushed the hair from her face, leaned on one elbow and watched the screen flash for her attention. It was McGovern, who’d eventually been contacted after a series of phone calls and told that Jimmy Adams wanted to speak to Macallan. She told him to hold on, stepped into the worn-out slippers she loved so much and went into the kitchen, where she could speak without disturbing the rest of the house. Jack managed to snore gently through the whole thing, and she envied the way he could switch off from the world and let it all be.

  ‘Don’t know what it’s about, but we’ve done a few checks and you might remember that he goes a long way back with Slab McMartin and used to be his right hand. Been relegated through old age to Brenda’s driver and he ended up in the ambulance with Brenda the night Cue Ball Ross decided to say hello.’

  ‘Of course. Used to be quite a boy in his day. Does it sound urgent? Because we’ve made arrangements tomorrow.’

  ‘All he would tell the operators was that it was about Tommy McMartin and so it must be something to do with Jacquie Bell’s story. Who knows, could be just another old ned wanting to tell us what a star he was in the day. Intel is he was still Brenda’s driver up to the last entry, so worth a go.’

  Macallan chewed her lip and realised that she’d now be lucky to reach the level of sleep she’d been heading for just five minutes earlier. She asked McGovern to hang on while she flicked the switch on the kettle, even though she knew that coffee was probably all wrong at that time of night.

  ‘Have you been following all this stuff at Bellshill? The man arrested at the locus was Abe Logan. The Logans are the ones trying to put an end to Brenda and what’s left of the McMartins.’

  ‘Violent times. Wonder if any of the dots join up to our thing?’ Her mind clicked back to priorities. ‘Did you manage to get permission to look at the HOLMES system for the Mickey Dalton murder?’

  ‘Got it and we can do it at Pitt Street.’

  ‘Tell you what: any chance you can get a hold of Felicity and the two of you have a look at the system to make sure there’s nothing that might be worth looking at?’

  Felicity Young had a brilliant mind and could cut through mountains of data without being overwhelmed by the task. She was ideal for this type of job.

  ‘We might get flak for looking at the murder. I know a couple of people with not a shred of evidence have given us their theories, but it doesn’t mean a thing. It’s a bit outside the remit, and we might get some serious grief over it,’ McGovern said, though he already knew what her reply would be.

  ‘No stone unturned, Jimmy.’ Her tone was too sharp for a man who was her friend and had a right to bring this up. She knew that, closed her eyes and tried to make amends. ‘You know what I’m like. If there’s a problem I’ll take the blows, and anyway your retirement day is in sight. What are they going to do now . . . arrest you for following an order?’

  He caught the humour in her reply and threw it back. ‘You were born to get up people’s noses – it’s what you do. Consider it done and I’ll call Felicity now. She’s a big mate of Elaine Tenant, isn’t she, so I’m sure she can swing it for a couple of days. What are we looking for though? That’s the first thing she’ll ask.’

  ‘What’s not there that should be. Mick and Danny Goldstein have suggested problems in the investigation team. If there was something wrong and a fit-up then it’s what’s not there.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ll go and see Charlie MacKay on my own; I’ll pick up a hirey. Set up a meet anywhere that suits Adams and I’ll go and see him, or he can come to me. Whatever.’

  ‘Charlie MacKay ran the Bellshill op from the back.’

  ‘Those coincidences again. He runs the Dalton murder and here he is just when we’re in the game.’

  McGovern would have gone through a wall for Macallan, and she knew that. They were stepping into dark waters – they both knew that as well, although neither could have explained why. The gods were drawing a number of people together, because some crimes can never be washed away without retribution and atonement.

  Macallan slipped back into bed, stared at the ceiling and tried to understand what was troubling her, but there was nothing apart from that deep instinct. There were people she’d never met who had to answer for their sins, and at some stage she’d face them and listen to their confessions. Macallan had rejected all forms of religion but wondered why there were forces that drew her to these people. Was it something unresolved in her own life, a recognition that she was no better than the men and women she accused?

  Jack turned and threw his arm around her. ‘Go to sleep.’

  She kissed him, then put her legs back over the edge of the bed and sat there lost in her thoughts for a moment, unaware that Jack had propped his head back up on the pillow and was watching her without speaking. She padded through to the kids’ bedroom and lowered herself into the wooden chair that had belonged to Jack’s grandmother. As she stared at them, watching for the movements in their chests that proved they were okay, Jack came in behind her and put his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘They’re wonderful, and they’re all ours. Imagine that?’

  Jack always managed to
say the right thing. She pulled the back of his hand to her lips and held it there long enough for him to recognise she was having all those doubts again. He knew how to see her through them now, and although he was still learning, they were getting stronger – it was just a case of hoping nothing came at her in those moments of weakness.

  ‘Bed.’ He took her arm and she followed him back to their room. She managed to sleep, which was its own form of miracle and the result of the comforting effect the old house had on her.

  Across the Irish Sea Brenda McMartin’s body ached for rest, but apart from occasional lapses into half sleep she forced herself to stay awake. The room was dark apart from the lamp behind her chair where she read Jacquie Bell’s article for the third time. She’d never thought Tommy McMartin’s name would rise to the surface again, and it was another bad omen. Her world was full of bad omens, and on the same page there was another one to ponder: Macallan, the detective who’d visited her in hospital the night she was taken apart in Edinburgh. The same detective who’d got so far into her bones she’d tried to get to her with broken ribs and an A4 sheet of injuries. She’d been left moaning on the floor, cursing in frustration at this woman who looked down on her and sneered.

  She kept snapping her head up at the slightest noise, waiting to identify the source then calming again. She eventually dozed and the paper slipped from her hands onto the floor.

  She woke again with a start and although there was no sound she was sure an ice-cold hand had brushed her neck. She stood up and gripped the sawn-off, her chest heaving. There was no one there, and she would have believed it was just a draught, but everything was closed up tight and there was little or no wind outside. She never moved a muscle for a couple of minutes, but still nothing moved. She walked round the doors and windows and checked them all, but they were as she’d left them the last time. There was no one else in the house, only her nerves firing erratically.