He pulled the ring on a can of Irn Bru and settled back in his seat. He was relaxed and thought that if this job went well it would give him big cred with Terry Norman down in the Pool. If Cue Ball went back to the business in Edinburgh then he could set things up with Norman as his main supplier and everyone would be a winner. It was as sweet as a nut, and he imagined himself in a flash pad down on the Shore in Leith.
When Macallan and Dunbar got to the front gate of the single-storey cottage they had their first surprise. The garden was cared for; it wasn’t award-winning, but someone had obviously put time into it. There wasn’t a single discarded crisp packet or pizza box to confirm what they’d imagined. The next surprise was that the heavy old front door was open, a glass-panelled vestibule door closed behind it. The two officers looked at each other, shrugged and pressed the bell. The curtains were all closed, and they watched the downstairs ones twitch for a moment before Brenda opened the door. Wearing her eye patch and a T-shirt that said ‘fuck the polis’, she seemed to fill the space, and it was one of those moments when her visitors wondered whether she was going to ask them in or attempt to eat them at the door. She nodded and turned back into the house. They took that as an invitation to go in.
‘Shut and lock the door behind. Some bad people out there.’ Brenda didn’t realise how right she was, given that Cue Ball Ross was watching the house with a loaded shooter and a knife to keep him company.
The second surprise for Macallan and Dunbar was that the place had no unpleasant odour apart from the faint trace of booze trailing in Brenda’s wake. There was a hint of tobacco smoke, but she must have kept the place aired and it felt clean enough. None of it made sense.
They followed her through to the lounge where they’d seen the curtains move. It was pleasing on the eye: full of old furniture that looked like someone had wandered slowly round second-hand furniture stores and antique shops picking each item with care. Like the garden, it wasn’t Country Life standard; nevertheless, it was a world away from where this woman and violent criminal had been raised and trained.
‘Sit down but I’m offering you fuck all to drink. I mean, you’re filth, and I haven’t forgotten you.’ She pointed at Macallan. ‘And where did you pick up that fuckin’ has-been?’ She winked at Dunbar, but there were traces of a grin on her lips and she couldn’t hide a measure of respect for the man. ‘Still never managed to get any of us, eh?’
‘Nice to see you as well, Brenda, and it was good trying. Shut down a few of your businesses over the years so at least I cost you a few quid.’ Dunbar said it as if he was catching up with an old friend. No trace of fear or tension. He was class and Macallan just kept on liking him.
‘Okay, get to the point. You want to speak to me, so speak.’
Macallan tried to keep it as formal as possible. She had to issue the threat-to-life warning and any failure carried a heavy price for the force if it didn’t take place. She told Brenda that they’d received information that there was a serious threat against her and that they believed it was credible. They offered support and all the other bollocks that Big Brenda wasn’t the least bit interested in.
As Macallan worked through the formalities a smile spread across Brenda’s blotchy face. She looked like she’d been hitting the sauce with a vengeance and her complexion, spotted by broken veins and traces of dry skin, had taken on a deep purple hue. Despite that, the smile was wide, and somehow the message that someone was intent on killing her was received like a fairly decent joke.
‘Well, well. So some tosser wants to kill Big Brenda. Boo fuckin’ hoo. Nothin’ new there then, is there?’ She shook her head as if the two cops were children saying something innocently amusing.
‘We have to tell you this. It’s serious this time. They’re coming for you. We know you’ve been ripping people off. It’s payback and you know it.’ Macallan knew she was wasting her time but this had to be done by the book.
‘Rippin’ them off. Any complaints from anyone?’
‘You know that’s not likely.’ Dunbar looked her straight in the eye. ‘We’re just the messengers, so do what you like with it.’
‘I’ll do fuck all then but wait. Any objections?’
Brenda got up and walked through to the kitchen then called back: ‘Changed my mind. Want a drink?’ She returned with a vodka bottle and three glasses.
Macallan and Dunbar said no and watched Brenda fill a glass almost to the brim. It made their eyes water when she tipped her head back and downed it in a oner. She smacked her lips and gave a long, satisfied sigh.
‘Sure ye’ll no have one for the road?’
‘I need to ask you a couple of other questions, Brenda.’ Macallan was fed up with play-acting. ‘I’ve been looking at the circumstances of Tommy’s suicide in Barlinnie.’
She hesitated; she hadn’t rehearsed her lines and wondered whether she should just walk away and let the dead lie peacefully.
Macallan would never be able to explain what happened next but she tore up the script in a moment and went with her gut. ‘I’ll take that drink before I go on.’
That caught Dunbar off guard, and he looked round at her with a question in his eyes. Although he never voiced it, the question was definitely ‘what the fuck are you doing?’ Then he saw it, knew exactly where she was going and let it run.
It caught Brenda as well, and she stared at Macallan before picking up the bottle and filling one of the spare glasses half full. ‘That enough?’
Macallan nodded and Brenda filled her own glass to the top again.
‘Tell me what happened at Mickey Dalton’s, Brenda. This might be the last chance for any of us to know the truth.’
Brenda glanced towards the door and seemed lost in her own thoughts before looking back at Macallan. She nodded. ‘Just you. I’ll talk to you on your own. That’s the deal.’ She tipped back the glass again and emptied it.
Macallan looked round at Dunbar; they never spoke a word and didn’t need to. He stood up and took a step towards Brenda. ‘I’ll be right outside. Do not take the piss.’ He stared at her till he was sure she’d got the message then closed the door behind him.
‘What do you want to know?’ Brenda swallowed hard, and for the first time Macallan saw something else behind the mask of a cold bitter criminal who seemed to have almost no feelings when it came to other human beings.
‘People have said that they didn’t believe Tommy killed Mickey Dalton. We haven’t a shred of evidence to prove that.’ Macallan thought she’d throw the dice and see where they landed. ‘One person said it was you. Said they didn’t know why, but it was you. I’m not going to lie: they won’t stand up in court, but that’s what they said.’
She’d rarely touched spirits since the children had come along, but now was the time and she swigged the vodka back. The fiery liquid scorched the back of her throat and soon began to surge through her bloodstream, taking the edge off.
‘Fair enough. I’m fucked anyway.’
Macallan sat mesmerised as the woman who had terrified so many in her time told it all.
‘My old man was a bastard of the first order. He hated me and my brother Bobby – that’s Crazy Horse to you but always Bobby for me.’
Macallan watched Brenda’s nose start to run as she carried on.
‘The old man was makin’ a fortune in property deals and had the top man in plannin’ right in his pocket. The inside info came straight into his lap.’
‘Was that Ian Moore?’ Macallan asked and lifted the glass again. It was as if they were locked in their own small confessional.
‘That’s the bastard. Thing is, he was a bender an’ liked boys; in fact he couldn’t get enough. Turned out he’d been doin’ Mickey Dalton for months and fell in love with the boy.’
Brenda filled her glass again and for the first time Macallan noticed that she was starting to slur, although it was barely noticeable and most men would have been halfway to a coma the way she was packing it away.
‘Tu
rned out that Mickey boy was a greedy wee bastard and started to take Ian Moore for every penny he could lay his hands on. Next thing he threatens to tell the man’s wife all the dirty stuff they’ve been into. So guess what?’
She emptied the last of the vodka into her glass as Macallan gave the obvious answer to the question.
‘Moore went to Slab and asked for help?’ Macallan saw it all becoming clear like a reflection settling on a disturbed pool.
‘Exactly.’ Brenda said it as if Macallan was a friend. The vodka was having a most unusual effect on her.
‘The old man gave me an’ Bobby the job to sort Mickey Dalton, and his exact words were: “Do whatever’s required.”’ She laughed at some inside joke that Macallan couldn’t make out in the picture that was still swirling, though she was almost there.
‘Bobby tracked Mickey for a few days an’ guess what?’
‘They see him with Tommy.’ Macallan saw it opening up like a stage play and everyone was in their places now.
‘Exactly again.’ Brenda wasn’t going to stop now. ‘Thing is we fuckin’ hated Tommy. Swaggerin’ bastard thought he was the dug’s baws, an’ the old man thought the sun shone from his sweet little arse. We didn’t mention Tommy. Told the old man fuck all and followed orders. We did the job.’
‘But according to the CCTV records no one was seen entering or leaving except Mickey and Tommy.’ Macallan threw the question in because McGovern and Young had noticed it on the HOLMES system and it needed an answer.
‘We were good at what we did. We’d looked at the place beforehand and deeked the camera. There was a back way in over a wall.’
‘But how did you get in?’
‘Still don’t see it.’ Brenda was giving a lesson now. ‘We’d already decided on a way to take Tommy out of the game to pish in the old man’s face. We pulled this boy Mickey an’ terrorised the fucker wi’ a chainsaw. Told him we were after Tommy an’ wanted to set him up. The boy agreed to get Tommy off his skull an’ leave him for us. Poor twat never saw it comin’. Fanny Adams drove me and Bobby to the job. Daft bastard opened the door, didn’t he? We done him and let Tommy take the drive for Bar-L. Simple really, an’ when we told the old man, Bobby spat in his gob. Honestly, right in his puss. You should’ve seen the bastard’s face. Nothin’ he could do but go along wi’ it an’ pretend he knew nothin’ about Tommy’s poofery.’
Brenda looked exhausted but pleased, and her face glowed with the excess of alcohol pounding through her arteries. ‘It was fuckin’ payback for that auld bastard, an’ he deserved what he got.’
Brenda got up and swayed slightly before heading for the kitchen and bringing in a fresh bottle.
‘No more for me.’ Macallan was joining the strands and the set-up was there, but so was something else. The hatred for Slab, his contempt for his own, and Jimmy Adams’ story about a child being discarded in the Clyde.
‘Whose child was it that Slab threw into the river?’ Macallan threw back the dregs in her glass and watched Brenda’s face struggle with the question.
‘Jimmy Adams?’
Macallan nodded and waited for the final piece of the truth.
‘Mine.’ She looked back at Macallan, who saw her one eye fill. Brenda shuddered with the awful secrets that rose like bile in her throat.
‘Was Slab the father?’ Macallan held her breath after asking the question, as if the slightest movement might stop Brenda uncovering a secret that she’d kept buried all these years.
‘Him?’ Her chest heaved with emotion and distress. ‘It was Bobby. Bobby was the only one who ever cared about me. The old man found out when I fell pregnant an’ went mental so he killed the wean. That’s why the bastard hated us. Tommy’s suicide . . . well, just lay that on the old bastard as well.’
Brenda sat back and fumbled at the pack of cigarettes beside her.
Macallan stared at Brenda, lost for words and reeling at the pictures flooding her imagination. She forced herself to see Kate and Adam at home, but they faded as quickly as she could bring them into her mind. It was too much.
‘Gimme one of those.’ Macallan pointed at the packet in Brenda’s hand.
‘Didn’t take you for a smoker.’ Brenda offered the packet and Macallan put her first cigarette in years to her mouth. She took the lighter Brenda offered her and tried to control the tremor in her hand. It tasted awful but the effect was immediate, and her head felt light as the nicotine hit the receptors in her brain and dopamine flooded into her system. They didn’t say anything for the next couple of minutes as they both absorbed what the disclosure meant.
Brenda spoke first. ‘What happens now?’
‘What do you want to happen?’
‘Leave me here.’ Brenda looked weak and ill. The fight had gone from her – all her aggression had been left in the past.
Macallan knew exactly what it meant. With the exception of Jimmy Adams, who was never going to say anything to anybody else, she was the only person apart from Brenda McMartin who knew it all or nearly all.
She stood up and threw the remaining half of the cigarette into the fireplace.
‘One last question. When did you last see your father?’
‘I managed to see him before he died.’ Brenda locked her one good eye onto Macallan and let the answer hang in the air.
‘That’s what I thought. I’ll give it a few days but I’ll probably have to come back once I’ve completed the enquiries.’ Macallan picked up her bag, feeling sick.
‘That’ll do me, Superintendent. Won’t get up ’cause I’m pished.’
Macallan let herself out and found Dunbar, who saw the grey pallor and strain carved into her face. ‘Tough in there?’
‘Hard going. Let’s go.’
After about ten minutes Dunbar couldn’t hold it any longer. ‘Can I ask what happened in there, boss?’
Macallan stared ahead and he began to wonder whether she’d even heard him. She was lost somewhere in her head. He gave up and concentrated back on the road, but then she said, ‘She denied everything. Refused to admit a thing.’
‘Fair enough. I thought that might be the case.’ He knew it wasn’t true but something had clearly shocked her and she didn’t need interrogating. He left her to go back to her thoughts.
A while later she took a call from McGovern that her anonymous call had come from a public phone box. It hardly registered with her.
When Macallan left the cottage, Brenda McMartin was feeling the effects of the booze but also a sense of relief. She was so tired it hurt. It was more than that – it was exhaustion that just made her want to lie down and close her eyes forever. However, there was something she needed to do first.
She went around the house and opened all the back windows, then the lounge window to clear the smoke and put The Proclaimers on a loop. That done, she swayed her way down the back garden, returning a couple of minutes later with the sawn-off she’d stashed.
She slugged back a couple of glasses of water, couldn’t hold her eye open any longer and went to sleep in her favourite chair, confident that everything was in place.
57
He’d read the article several times. Each time his gut knotted and the anger rose in his chest, making his heart pound and ache. Sometimes his breathing became laboured and he wondered if he needed medical treatment. But then what was the point? There was no real purpose in his life anymore, and he could see nothing but a blank page for his future. His family were beyond his reach and his daughter was dead. If he ever tried to approach old friends they would turn their backs on him – he knew that without question.
‘Old friends’ – the term made him grind his teeth. He’d never really had someone who was close, someone he could share his troubles or joy with. All he’d ever had were human beings he could use or abuse. Recently he’d wandered through the old Lawnmarket where he’d spotted a couple of people he’d worked with in the past, and even though the years of abuse were catching up and he’d aged quickly, their eyes register
ed recognition. They passed him by without a second glance.
There was only one more thing to do and he looked at the paper again. Macallan was getting married. Her life was all success, distinguished career, a distinguished husband and a distinguished life. So many admirers and any comparison with his own life made him choke.
He looked at the name of the hotel where the wedding was to be held and waved down a taxi. It would be an idea to have a drink in the place and see where her big day was going to happen. He mumbled the word ‘bitch’ then pulled himself together before climbing into the taxi and giving the driver directions.
58
Cue Ball watched the pigs drive away and settled back down till it was dark. His great strength was that he always stayed focused and treated each job seriously. He never acted the cowboy, which was why he’d survived so long when nine times out of ten he was half the size of the opposition. When he was asked to do a bit of wet work he did it as a job, and he regarded himself as a professional. He still thought it was a strange quirk that he’d been hired to do Big Brenda as his first job back in Scotland. Just part of the business. People had to be wiped every so often or there would be chaos.
He hardly saw a soul all day apart from a few old sorts with their dogs. He was sure none of them would recognise the car, but he was in a good spot anyway, where he wouldn’t attract too much attention. He sat in the back, which meant he couldn’t be seen through the privacy glass. A plastic bottle took care of his bladder and he was patient. It was a great virtue in his game: the ability to pick the right moment to act.
Cue Ball hadn’t meant to sleep but it happened. He woke with a start and found the sun had long gone. There were a few lights on but the street was filled with shadows, and the back of the line of cottages would give him all the cover he needed. The shooter he stuffed into his belt had no silencer, and he would only use it as a last resort. The place was so quiet that gunfire would be heard a mile off, and if the bizzies got a call then he wouldn’t have much time to get back into the city where he could lose himself.
Where No Shadows Fall Page 30