by Anna Smith
‘Are they all using coke?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. That’s the truth. All I know is that they’re terrified all the time.’
‘Do you know where they stay when they’re not working here?’
‘Not really. The address might be somewhere in the reception desk. But I think they live in some place down by the Clyde. That new block of flats. Some of the girls work out of there. They belong to McCann too.’
‘What? The flats belong to McCann?’
‘Don’t know about that. But the girls do.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I was here when they were brought in. Couple of weeks ago. They came up from Manchester, I think.’
Kerry looked at Jack who shook his head. Enough said here.
‘Where do you live, Karen?’
‘Easterhouse.’
‘Okay. Go home now. Tell Mr Reilly what your hours were this week and how much you’re owed. Then give him your phone number. You’ve been helpful here. But you keep your mouth shut tight about this conversation. You hear me? As much for yourself as anything else. So keep it shut.’
‘Is the place really going to close?’
‘It’s already closed.’
She stood up. ‘Okay. I’ll need to look for another job.’
Kerry looked at her, skinny, the tight T-shirt barely covering her midriff, the drainpipe jeans and worn trainers. She looked like she needed a good feed and a few nights’ sleep. But she didn’t know her, and couldn’t trust her. How did she know she wouldn’t walk out of here and phone McCann straight away?
‘Listen, if you’re smart you don’t talk to McCann. And I mean ever again. Don’t answer your phone to him, don’t meet him. Just stay away from him.’ She looked at Jack. ‘Leave your phone number, and I’ll see if we can find some other work for you. But you keep your mouth shut, because if you don’t, I’ll hear about it.’ She leaned a little closer to her. ‘Because, eventually, I get to hear everything that goes on in this city. You understand that? Are we clear here?’
‘Aye. No problem. I’ll no’ speak to anybody. Honest. Nobody.’
Kerry nodded to Jack as he motioned her towards the door.
Chapter Six
Maria Ahern watched from the window of her sixth floor council flat as the metallic blue 4x4 pulled into the car park of the multistorey flats. Her stomach dropped. She didn’t need to wait until the driver got out. She knew even before he looked up at her with his skinny rat face that he was coming for her. She was two days late with her loan payment – the second payment she’d missed – so the three hundred quid she’d borrowed was now eighteen hundred. She’d been well warned not to go near Tam Dolan, the loan shark who owned half the people in the scheme, but she’d been beyond desperate. It was either borrow the money or take her fifteen-year-old son Cal and go out and live on the streets. She was already working twelve hours a day cleaning offices in the city centre to pay off her daughter Jen’s drug debts, but everywhere she turned, her world was falling down around her. She hadn’t slept for days, knowing that her Jen was out there, somewhere, in some junkie den, or propped up in some shop doorway on the drag, touting for business from cruising cars. Any day now, Maria knew she would get the knock on the door that her daughter was just another statistic, found up some close with a needle in her arm. Everywhere she looked it was nothing but blackness. She stepped away from the window, feeling her bowels churn. She tiptoed into the bedroom where Cal slept peacefully huddled in a ball under the duvet. Everything she did now was for him. It broke her heart the way he looked at her, knowing he was feeling her pain, her helplessness. He’d taken a job in the car wash two evenings a week and at weekends to bring in some extra cash. That was the only thing that kept them in food and electricity. Everything Maria earned went towards the loan shark. Jen was a lost cause. Despite the drugs Maria had taken her back many times, but after Jen had stolen from her she couldn’t have her in the house. She waited, sensitive to every sound. She stood at the hall door, barely breathing, as she heard the lift pinging on her floor. Then the footsteps. The knock at the door was loud, and she knew that all along the top hall, punters would recognise that knock; it would send a shiver through at least three or four of them up to their necks in hock, but they’d be glad it wasn’t their door today. Maria braced herself and opened the door. Tam Dolan stood there, bomber jacket, dirty fingernails and hair, and eyes like black dots on a rat face. His shark-thin mouth stretched tight. He glanced her up and down, his tongue darting in and out.
‘Tam . . . I-I’m—’
‘Fuck up!’
He pushed past her into the hall, knocking some photos off the wall. They smashed to the floor, the glass shattering. Maria felt herself shivering.
‘You’re fucking late again, bitch. What do you think this is, the St Vincent de fucking Paul charity?’
‘Tam . . . Listen . . . Just let me talk . . .’
But he was already pinning her against the wall, his rancid breath in her face, pushing himself against her, and his hand at her throat, pressing on her windpipe, as she struggled to breathe.
‘T-Tam . . .’
He put his hand up her skirt and ripped her pants off, then unzipped his jeans. She knew there was no point in protesting. It was either let him do it, or get her ribs bruised.
‘This doesn’t mean you’re paid, by the way. This is just because I can.’
He thrust himself inside her and pushed her against the wall. She stood as he thrust, groaning, and she could feel her eyes well up, thinking of Cal in bed, of her daughter somewhere out there. Christ! If she had a gun she could shoot this bastard right now. Hurry up and finish in case Cal hears you.
Afterwards, he pulled up his jeans.
‘That was no’ bad for an old bird. I’m going to let you pay the eighteen hundred. But no more hanging back. I can get a shag anywhere. So you pay next week or it might be someone else coming to beat the shit out of you. And by the way, they’ll no’ just be taking your telly. You pay up, or tell you what, that junkie hoor daughter of yours is over into the Clyde. You got that?’
She sniffed back tears, her legs shaking. He turned and walked out, slamming the door.
*
Cal lay in bed, curled up, his hands over his ears. He had heard it all. His entire body felt on fire with rage. He wanted to get up and knife the fucker in the back. But what then? Cops, jail, the whole fucking shooting match. Leaving his mother alone. Why was it like this for them, for him, for guys like him? There was a time when all he dreamed of was to study and get to university, find a good job. But it was so different now. That was never going to happen. There was fuck all for him in this place with this shit happening all around him. He adored his mum, his big sister was gone, and all he could do now to help was work as a runner for the drug dealers, dropping stuff off and taking their stinking money. His ma would go mental if she found out, but the money from the car wash where he worked four nights a week would barely feed them. Plus, if he stayed close to the scene, he could keep an eye on his sister.
*
Frankie Martin lay in the steam room, staring at the tiny eyelet lights on the ceiling as they changed colour every few seconds. He was knackered after a heavy workout at the Hilton hotel gym, where he’d spent the past hour, pounding the miles on the treadmill, then punching hell out of the heavy bag until his knuckles hurt under his boxing gloves. Hitting the bag helped get some of his aggro out, but his gut still burned. That conversation around the table with Kerry and the boys three days ago hacked him off – the way she’d slapped him down in front of everyone. That was bad enough, but worse still was the fact that none of the boys pitched in to defend what he was saying, even though the fuckers knew he was right. Cunts always resented him because Mickey chose him to be his right-hand man as opposed to the rest of them, who were second generation hands in the Casey empire. Some of the fuckers were only there because their das had been thick with old Casey before he popped his c
logs. Sure, they were hard enough, but more was needed these days if the organisation was going to survive and grow. Cunts like Knuckles Boyle, as well as Billy Hill’s and Pat Durkin’s mobs, were on a different level when it came to success. If the Caseys didn’t shape up to that then they were history. How the fuck could Kerry not see that? Frankie had asked as he’d punched the bag earlier. How can she not see? Because she’s a fucking woman with a privileged life who didn’t have a fucking clue. He was right and he knew it. The Caseys could be anything they wanted. If they played their cards right, they could be bigger players than just Glasgow. That was the message that had been coming to him over the past few months, but it was made clear to him that Mickey was not the man to front the family. He was an asshole, a bullying fucker who didn’t know how to schmooze with people like the Boyles and Durkins. You had to know how to do that, even if you were quietly planning to knife them in the back. That’s why he’d had to get rid of Mickey. Frankie wasn’t the kind of guy to be soul-searching, or feel guilty that he’d organised a hit on his best friend. Fair enough, they’d been like brothers growing up. He shouldn’t have been capable of doing him in. But he had to. It was business. With Mickey gone, he was the natural heir – until Knuckles’ crew fucked up at the funeral and bumped Mickey’s old mum off in the crossfire. Jesus Christ! The old bird had loved Frankie to bits. She’d treated him like her second son, and she’d have been glad to see him taking over the reins for as long as she lived – even though she’d always made noises that one day the Caseys would be legit. She had been clueless as well. Mickey and Frankie had paid lip service to that shite, but they both knew it would never happen. Last week at Mickey’s funeral, Frankie was genuinely choked, and he had to push away the image that kept coming back to him of the look on Mickey’s face the moment he realised what was happening outside the restaurant. But he’d told himself it had to be done. Mickey had to go. Even though he’d talked of making the Caseys the biggest and most feared, the reality was that Mickey was hated by people like Knuckles Boyle, as well as the Durkins and Hills – and he was holding them back. It was Frankie who was continuously building bridges, cleaning up after Mickey had insulted someone or pushed things too far too fast. Mickey hadn’t been trusted, yet his massive ego and bullishness hadn’t allowed him to see that. It was Frankie who’d always had the easy charm about him, even when they were young guns. And more and more, it had been Frankie who had to step in and stop his best friend from screwing up. But in the long term, he was going nowhere, and sooner or later the rest of the mob, from Manchester to London to Spain, would pick them off. Frankie had needed to make his move. He knew he could handle the heat that came from the execution of a major gangland figure like Mickey Casey. He knew there would be the finger of suspicion because he was there, and yet survived the attack. But that was exactly how Frankie had organised it with Knuckles’ mob. And so far, he was getting away with it – even if he did miss the part of Mickey that he’d grown to love like a brother.
As he had watched his best mate being lowered into the ground, Frankie had stood at the graveside with his mind on bigger things. But now, suddenly, he was being shoved to the side, frozen out by Kerry. Christ! He could remember when she was a teenager and used to swoon every time he walked into the room. Now she was strutting around the fucking place like she’d been doing this all her life. No wonder he was on edge. Not only that, he was having to deal with Knuckles Boyle asking questions he couldn’t answer. And if he didn’t get things back on track soon, the word would get out to the Durkins and Hills that Frankie was being kept on a tight leash. He could almost hear the fuckers chuckling. He sat up, wiped his face with his towel and examined his knuckles that were now as angry red as he was feeling inside. He needed a plan that would make him invaluable to Kerry – at least until he could make his move.
Chapter Seven
For the first few minutes after they finally drove away from the Paradise Club, nobody spoke. Kerry couldn’t believe what she had just done. It had been as though she was watching someone else pistol-whip McCann; like she’d been dealing out punishment beatings all her life. It went against everything she had ever known. She had never even seen anyone being hit other than what she’d seen in the movies, or scene-of-crime photographs she’d examined while she was studying law at university. But what niggled her more was that she didn’t even regret it. She didn’t like herself for doing it, but she didn’t regret hitting him. He deserved it. What the hell was happening to her?
She lowered the window in the back, taking in a lungful of the damp November air. She should be sitting in some pavement café in Madrid or Valencia, or wherever her business took her, instead of here. They drove up onto Maryhill Road past the rows of grim tenements under the leaden sky, and out towards the north side of Glasgow, heading back to her house. Eventually, she spoke.
‘I feel as though I need a bloody bath after being in that place. What a dive! How in the name of Christ did we get involved in a place like that?’
Jack shifted his body a little, and pulled down the visor so he could see her in the mirror.
‘It’s just a business, Kerry – like a lot of the other places the firm owns. It’s not something we really get involved in, but on paper it belongs to the firm. Other people run it for us, same as the others. It’s how everything is – the taxi companies, the property company – all that stuff. Some good places too, but also some shitholes. There’s a couple of bars up in Saracen you wouldn’t be seen dead in, but it’s all about spreading the business around. Frankie would be able to tell you more. And Marty, of course.’
‘I have all the papers. I’ve been looking through them. But I just wanted to see for myself. I’m not impressed. Not at all.’
She was silent for a moment, recalling the encounter a few minutes ago with the East European women. She told Jack to give them whatever money they were due for today and got taxis to take them back to the flat they lived in. That would be closing down too, she decided. Jack had already called to get someone down there to look after things. Take care of the women. Make sure they didn’t leave. That in itself was a dilemma for Kerry. She needed to find out in what circumstances these women were brought here. It seemed they were McCann’s property, but she needed to know more.
‘That girl Karen said McCann brought these women up. Was he allowed to run the place to the extent that he could buy women? Is that how this was?’
Jack was hesitant. ‘Kerry, you’d need to talk to Frankie. He’ll know more detail. It was all organised by Mickey and him.’
Kerry met his eyes in the rear-view mirror, then leaned forward and touched his shoulder.
‘Jack. Listen to me. Right now, I’m not of the mind to ask Frankie anything. You know what I mean? Before I talk to Frankie in any detail, I want to know everything – not what he chooses to tell me. I need to know exactly what kind of shit he was involved in with Mickey that brings girls up from down south. What’s going on? Tell me what you know. I’m not trusting everyone, but I trust you. We go back a long way. You were my dad’s favourite. My mum loved you like her own.’
Jack’s eyes softened. ‘I know. I’ll never forget those days. Your ma and da were legends. Especially your da.’
‘So respect his memory. I’m running the show here. Not Frankie, not Marty, and certainly not anyone from Manchester or anywhere else. But before I make any real moves, I need to know some background.’
Jack sighed. ‘I can tell you some things, Kerry, but I’m not a hundred per cent certain everything will be accurate.’
‘Okay. We’ll go back to the house and have a coffee and a chat. Have you got much on?’
‘Just the bookies. I run two up in Maryhill. They’re ours, and we’ve got managers in them, but I like to pop in now and again, make sure everything is going okay. But I’m clear for a while.’
‘Fine. Let’s have a chat.’
Jack’s phone rang and he fished it out of his jacket pocket. Kerry listened as he spoke in o
ne-word answers to whoever it was. Then he put it back in his pocket.
‘That was one of my boys. They followed McCann to his house. He must have gone home to clean up, then come back out shortly afterwards. He’s gone out to the East End now. To a bar.’
‘Who’s out there?’
‘Pollock. That’s Pollock’s patch. So the wee weasel bastard is obviously scheming. I told you, Kerry. He won’t take that slapping lying down.’ He turned around, smiling. ‘By the way, I didn’t know you could slap people around like that.’
‘Me neither,’ Kerry said, straight-faced. ‘And I’ll be honest, I’m finding all of this hard to cope with, Jack. This is a whole new world for me. But I have to get used to it. So if McCann makes trouble we’ll deal with him. I’m not having bastards like him anywhere around me.’
Jack nodded. ‘Would be no loss to the world if he went missing, put it that way.’
Kerry didn’t answer. She didn’t know if she was expected to answer. The car pulled up to the house and she got out.
‘Thanks, Eddie.’
‘No problems, Kerry. If you need anything any time, you just let me know, sweetheart.’
Kerry smiled. He called her sweetheart. Old school. She was in charge of the organisation and the chauffeur was calling her sweetheart.
*
‘You pistol-whipped McCann?’ Marty looked slowly from Kerry to Jack, then pursed his lips. But somewhere beneath the disbelief on his face there was a wry smile dying to get out. ‘Well . . . I don’t quite know what to say to that. I’m sure the podgy little bastard deserved it, but I’m not sure it’s what you should really be doing, Kerry. I mean, I know you’re going to be hands-on . . . but this is taking it quite literally.’ Now he did smile.
‘It was a spur of the moment thing, Marty. Call it the red mist rising. I was so disgusted and angry at him beating that poor, defenceless girl. But I can’t believe I did it.’ Kerry shrugged, her face serious. ‘I can’t promise it won’t happen again. Because if I see some little gobshite beating up on a defenceless individual, then something kind of snaps in me. Don’t know where it comes from.’