by Anna Smith
Danny put his pen on the table and sat back.
‘So what happens if Knuckles decides to take a trip to Amsterdam in the next couple of days just to see how things are going at the warehouse? I mean, now that Sharon has done a runner, he’s bound to be on high alert. And even if he hasn’t the nous to think along the lines of her doing the real dirty on him, surely to Christ someone in his organisation has.’
‘If he does go there,’ Kerry said, ‘then everything will look normal. He doesn’t even know the drivers. That was always Sharon’s job. It’s her who got to know them over the years and treated them well, so there is a great level of trust there.’
‘There will have to be.’
‘So even if he did go, then everything will look as planned. Right until the trucks move out. He could even go and see them doing that if he wanted to, and still he wouldn’t see anything untoward. The only way he’d see anything is if he gets the trucks followed to the arranged switch place. And Sharon says that just wouldn’t happen. He wouldn’t do that.’
‘You’re putting a lot of trust in this woman, Kerry,’ Danny said. ‘I’m not saying she would double-cross you, but she’s been around the course a lot, and from what you tell us she’s probably lived on her wits all her life. She’s been looking after herself over the years, squirrelling away Knuckles’ money.’
‘And quite right, too, Danny. I’d be doing the same myself. But you’re right. I have nothing much to base my trust on other than the fact that she took a real risk getting in touch with me. It’s just instinct that tells me I can trust her. Boyle tried to have her murdered by his own men, guys she’d known and trusted for years. What kind of asshole does that to the mother of his son? She came to me because she was desperate, and she gauged by some of the stuff she had overheard about him talking about the situation up here that she knew we’d be ripe enough to want to have a go at him. And she’s bloody right about that. She’s already given me some good information about Frankie and Mickey when they were down there, and how things were with Knuckles and them. Hence the reason Frankie isn’t at this meeting, and as far as I’m concerned will never be at any major decision-making meeting here.’
There was a long moment’s silence around the table, and Kerry got the impression nobody disagreed with her.
‘So,’ Jack broke the silence. ‘As I said when we first talked about this, I think we should keep most of the shipment in Europe. Bringing it into the UK could present more problems. He won’t know the drivers, so it won’t matter to him that it’s going to be our lads driving. Now, on the Costa del Sol, we’ve got a couple of places down there we could stash a shipment like that for an indefinite period. Until we decide what we’re going to do with it.’
‘So where exactly are these places?’
‘Down past Estepona. There’s a few new developments down there, urbanisations they call them. We own about five or six apartments. Mickey bought them off-plan about five years ago; they’re all built now and most of the others in the development are occupied. Ours are still empty. But we have lock-ups attached to them, and underground garages for each apartment. Big areas that we could keep the stuff in.’
‘Sounds good. And safe?’
‘All the apartments are alarmed up. Mostly professionals or retired businesspeople who live there. Mostly Spanish. It’s all gated at the front, so nobody gets in without a key or a code. Once the stuff is there, it’s well safe.’
‘But with this amount of coke, it’s not something we could be running in with lorries.’
‘No. We’ll put someone in the apartments for the next few months. So they’ll look like they’re just moving in. Several trips with boxes and suitcases in vans. It’ll take a few days, but if it’s organised well, then the stuff can all be moved in and locked away securely.’
‘Do you have people in mind who could move in now?’
‘Yes. I was going to speak to them tonight, but I wanted to run it past you. They’re good lads. All from here, and very reliable.’
Kerry wanted to ask what they did on the Costa del Sol but she decided not to. Whatever they did it was illegal and it was being done for her organisation. She mulled over the development Jack had talked about. The fact that Mickey had bought it off-plan was probably the only sound judgement he had made in recent years that would have fulfilled his father’s dream. For a moment she entertained the idea of investing the proceeds from the stolen coke on property all along the Costa del Sol. Good property, solid apartments and buildings that would bring them a fortune of legitimate money.
‘What do you think, Kerry?’ Danny asked.
‘Sorry.’ She shook herself from her reverie. ‘Yes. I like that idea.’ She turned to Jack. ‘Set it up. Definitely, and let me know a bit more detail of the property and exactly where it is.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Frankie showed up at the bar on the Southside where Rab Pollock had arranged the meeting. The night before, over several drinks, he had listened to Pollock and McCann tell him how much they wanted him to come over to them. Forget the Caseys, Pollock said, they’ll be history in a few months now that the boys are taking their orders from a bird. Frankie played along with it, and before they knew it, he’d spun them a story that if he did come on, then he would have to be fifty per cent of the business and the other two could split the difference. The only way he would come was if it was all his show and they were his associates. He even sold them the idea that the Paradise Club was now his, that he’d made arrangements to take over the place from Kerry, who had no interest in it. She’d told him it was his, he lied, as long as he paid her a rent every month. He was going to totally gut the place and turn it into a proper club, right on the edge of the city centre, that would be packed to the rafters every night with good music and DJs and bands. If he went in with Pollock, this was what he was bringing to the table, and this was why he would be the boss. He reeled them in. He told them he wanted to see a couple of the flats they ran the whores out of, as he might be in a position to put them in better, more central flats in the city centre. He already owned three flats in Anderston Quay and rented them out, but he could soon turf out the tenants if he wanted to bring the whores in. So now he was waiting for Pollock to take him to the flat on the Southside, as he insisted he wanted to see the quality of the women. He knew they were taking him to the place where they kept Jenny, because McCann managed to let that slip last night when he was pissed. Frankie waited, knowing his boys were on hand and that once he was in and out, they’d know what to do.
‘All right, Frankie?’ Pollock came up to the bar. ‘McCann’s in the motor. We might as well have a look at this place first.’
‘Good,’ Frankie said, finishing his drink. ‘I’ve got a couple of things on in the afternoon, and I want to take you over to the Paradise Club to look at the plans. It’s going to be some place. You’ll be well impressed.’
They left the pub and went to the car where McCann was sitting in the driving seat smoking. He drove them half a mile away to the block of flats. It was in a more run-down area of the Southside that hadn’t been tarted up yet and was bordering on Govanhill.
‘Fuck’s sake, boys,’ Frankie said. ‘This is no place for a whorehouse. All you’re going to get here are all the two-bob wankers of the day. You can’t be making much money out of this.’
‘We’re making a bit,’ McCann said as they approached the secured entrance. ‘But we do need a better place. It’s a bit run-down. But the birds are no’ bad.’
They went through the door and climbed the three flights to the flat, Frankie clocking that both McCann and Pollock were puffing and out of breath by the time they got there. McCann unlocked the door and they walked in. The place stank of stale perfume and massage oil. A punter came out of the bedroom slipping on his jacket and stopped, a little startled, when he saw them.
‘All right, mate?’
The punter said nothing and sidled past them in the hallway then out of the door as qui
ck as he could. They walked down the hall and into the kitchen where a scantily clad girl of about twenty with legs up to her waist was lighting a cigarette from the cooker. She looked half starved, and she turned to them with the drooping eyelids of a smackhead.
‘Fuck me! Are they all smacked out their tits?’
McCann shrugged apologetically. ‘Keeps them quiet, Frankie. They’re easier to manage. Like having a monkey on a chain.’
‘Many punters in just now?’
‘Dunno,’ McCann said. ‘We’ll have a look.’
They went along the hall and opened each of the doors, all quiet and darkened, one with a girl giving a blowjob in the dark to some guy. Then they stopped at the last door.
‘This is where the bird is,’ McCann said. ‘That Jenny bird. Remember I told you about the boy who did the drop for us? We got her here.’
He opened the door and Frankie looked in. The girl sat staring into a split in the curtain where some daylight came in. There was an ashtray full of cigarette butts, a syringe and some wraps at the side of a table. She looked up at them and half smiled as though expecting them to be punters. They closed the door again.
‘Fuck. What you going to do with her? You can’t keep her for ever.’
‘Why no’? She’s no idea what day it is. She’s working for us now. We might sell her on. She’s no’ bad-looking when she’s tarted up a bit.’
Frankie nodded as they walked along to the kitchen. He looked at his watch.
‘We need to get moving. I’ve seen enough here. The place stinks, to put it mildly. It’s a shithole. If we’re going to do this, then we’ll do it right – in a half-decent gaff that doesn’t smell of recent shags. Come on. Let’s go to the Paradise Club. This will blow your mind.’
They walked behind him, and Frankie could feel the belief on them; part of him wished it was true, that he could run the whole show and have everyone traipse after him the way they did for Mickey Casey. One day, he promised himself.
*
When McCann pulled up to the Paradise Club and they got out, they stood looking up at the building.
‘What?’ Frankie said, turning to him and chuckled. ‘You’re not going to greet, are you, McCann? A bit emotional, eh?’
‘Fuck off, mate,’ McCann retorted. ‘This place was all right. I did well here.’
Frankie went to the padlock on the shuttered doors and opened them, sliding the chains. He looked at his watch. The boys should be doing their bit by now back at the flat. He pulled up the shutters noisily and walked in the door with Pollock and McCann behind him.
‘Freezing in here,’ Pollock said. ‘And stinks of damp too.’
‘Aye, well, it’s been lying idle for a couple of weeks. Anyway, the whole place is getting gutted inside out. In a few months you’ll not recognise it from before. Come on. Along to the office. I’ll show you the plans.’
Frankie flicked on lights as they walked along the sticky carpet to the office at the end, and he opened the door. Behind the desk, the tall skinny figure of Jimmy Dick sat grinning. Pollock and McCann looked at Frankie, startled. The penny seemed to drop quicker with McCann, who immediately recognised Dick and turned to the door. But Frankie flicked on the lock.
‘You know Jimmy, don’t you, lads?’
‘What the fuck, Frankie! What’s happening?’
Jimmy sat stony-faced behind the desk. He was known as the Grim Reaper, and if you had the unfortunate circumstance to be introduced to him, then your number was well and truly up. Frankie went over and leaned his backside on the desk and addressed the pair.
‘This is what happens when you’re thick enough to think you can take people on. This is what happens when you realise all you are is a wee prick who got too big for his boots. The two of you. What the fuck did you think you were going to do, taking on the Caseys? It’s laughable.’
Pollock’s face was chalk-white.
‘Frankie. Look, mate. It was all bravado. All shite. We were just going along with it when we were pished. We didn’t mean any disrespect. Let’s just forget it, man. All right?’
‘No, mate. It doesn’t work that way. Firstly, you were dealing with that arsehole Knuckles Boyle, when you must have known the bad blood going on with Mickey Casey. You carried on with it for your small-time shite and drops to Manchester. Second, you terrorised some wee guy’s ma and kidnapped her daughter who doesn’t know what day it is because she’s junked up in your fucking whorehouse down the road.’
‘Aw, Frankie,’ McCann said. ‘Listen. I was going to get her back on the street today. Honest. It was a stupid plan in the first place to take her, and we were just going to offload her up to the street tonight. All that crap we were talking to you was just bollocks. Honest, man. Just let us go. You’ll not hear from us again. But anything you want us to do we’ll do it free. We’ll work for you, Frankie – any time.’
Frankie looked at the pair of them. They thought they were hard men, but here they were, shitting their pants because they knew it was over. He would have had more respect for them if they’d put up a fight or pulled a weapon. But they were standing there bricking it, pleading for mercy. He checked his watch. The boys would have been in now and got Jenny. They’d be taking her to the arranged place, and within the next half-hour he’d be phoning Kerry to tell her job done. He’d be a hero, or as close to a hero as Kerry would view him. But it would be a start. And the bonus was he’d get these two pricks off the face of the earth which would also send a message to anyone else out there trying to take them on. Knuckles would get the blame for it anyway, as revenge for losing his smack. He gave them a disgusted look and went to the door.
‘Give me a shout when you’re sorted, Jimmy.’
He opened the door and walked out, knowing that in the next twenty-four hours an abandoned, burned-out car would be found in the back of Rab Pollock’s favourite bar in the East End of Glasgow, with the two charred bodies in it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Maria had barely slept, but she was full of nervous energy, and was fussing around the kitchen, continually wiping the worktop, polishing the shelves. She’d lain awake most of the night, her ears pricking up at the least sound coming out of the bedroom where Jenny had finally drifted off to sleep. More than anything, she was listening for footsteps in case her daughter had decided to do a runner. She knew Cal too was up and down most of the night, checking on his sister, and she’d heard him in the kitchen a couple of times making tea. Poor Cal. He’d adored Jenny when he was a little boy and followed her around like a puppy when he was a toddler. And she’d been so good with him, fussing around him like the dutiful big sister, helping feed him and playing with him. It broke Maria’s heart to see what Jenny had become, but it had been broken a long time ago; Jenny had been so lost to her for the past four years, as she became swallowed up by heroin. The funny, smart-as-a-whip teenager, full of promise, was like a stranger now, her eyes miles away, everything in her day built around getting enough smack to keep going. Maria padded along the hallway and stuck her head around the door of Jenny’s bedroom. She could see her sleeping soundly on the double bed, her hollow cheeks like razors, but still with that same pose she’d had as a little girl, her arms stretched back on the pillow. Maria felt her chest tighten with emotion and closed the door, then quietly went back into the kitchen, stuck the kettle on and sat at the table.
She reflected on last night and the phone call she’d been waiting for, to say they were bringing Jenny home. It had been a tearful reunion, with Jenny sobbing and collapsing in her arms, saying she was sorry, but she didn’t understand why they took her, or even who took her. Poor Jenny had assumed she’d owed so much money for drugs that her dealer had taken her to use her in the flat where she’d been held. Maria could see that she was in no fit state to be told the truth, so that was for another day. Kerry had arrived along with Frankie Martin, who Maria remembered from years ago as the handsome friend of Mickey Casey. He’d smiled and told her not to worry, that nobody
would ever harm Jenny again. Kerry had handed Maria a couple of sedatives she’d been given by a GP the family used, and she told her to give Jenny the pills, because she’d be rattling without the heroin. Then she said she’d made arrangements for Jenny to go into rehab in the morning for the next four months to a private clinic down in the Borders, which she was paying for. When Frankie left the flat to go to the car, Maria had been in tears, thanking Kerry for saving her life. She told her she would repay her, that she would work for free in any area of her organisation. But Kerry had just put her arm around her shoulder and told her not to fret, that she would find a job for her in the next week or so.
Maria got up and gazed out of her kitchen window which looked onto the sloping greens of Kelvingrove Park in the distance. Never in her life would she ever have been able to rent a place like this. The three-bedroom flat in the old tenement building was massive and kitted out tastefully with wooden floors and a fireplace. And instead of looking out of her window twelve floors up, watching nervously for the moneylender to come threatening, she could see people coming to and from their work in their cars, well-dressed ordinary people. It had been so long since she’d lived an ordinary life with the kind of things they had. When she married Tom after he joined the army, her life had been abroad in Cyprus, in Germany, and in north London for a time. They never wanted for anything. Tom was away a lot, so homesickness was something she got used to, and to help this she’d made friends with the other army wives. Then when Jenny arrived, followed a few years later by Cal, and Maria really believed her life was complete. She had everything she ever wanted. But it fell apart after Tom came back from Iraq. Prior to going on his tour of duty, he had been sent on more and more training courses, then Iraq twice. He never spoke about his work out there, but from what other people had told him he was a crack sniper, and was in demand in various provinces where the army was cleaning out rebel dissidents. She often wondered when he was home on leave if he had done something bad out in Iraq that was causing him to wake up with night sweats, when she would find him sitting in the dark of their living room. He wouldn’t speak to her about anything. She knew from newspapers that some terrible things happened to innocent people caught in the crossfire in Iraq, and she wondered if Tom had a dark guilty secret that was eating away at him. He became more and more restless and depressed, and within a year he was out of the army and sinking into a deep depression. She just couldn’t get through to him. They called it Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but there was little help for him. He’d felt the army had abandoned him. And then, one day, there was a letter addressed to her on the kitchen table when she came in from the supermarket, and he was gone. He couldn’t take it any more, he told her, couldn’t live with the depression, and all he was doing was wasting her life. He disappeared and she hadn’t heard from him in the past nine years. Once, he did get in touch and they tried again, but it didn’t work, and he was off again after a few weeks. There was never a day went by that she didn’t think about him, wonder where he was, or if he was even alive. He could be abroad or anywhere. Cal had grown up with the photographs of his dad in uniform but without his arms around him, without the guidance, and despite that he was a strong boy in character, determined to do well. Jenny was another story. She’d become angry and troublesome after her father left and by the time she was a teenager the problems really kicked in. In the run-down council housing scheme, where families tried to live without relying on moneylenders and drug dealers, it was somehow normal for teenage children to be drinking and smoking joints, and she waited up every night for her to come home, drunk or high on drugs. And then one night she didn’t. When she found her three days later, she was smacked out of her head, and no matter how hard Maria had tried, Jenny never came back to her.