by Tony Black
He held firm, not a flicker in his grey eyes.
I continued, 'You see, in the course of the investigation I've uncovered some very interesting facts, Councillor. Not just about the company you keep, although that in itself is very interesting.'
He shrugged, brought his bulk forward in his chair and laced his fingers over his belly. 'I'm not sure of the relevance of any of this—'
'Oh, no? Well, it seems to me that in the last few months there's been some quite interesting goings on down at the Port.'
He unhooked his hands, weighed the air with them. 'I'm lost.'
'Oh, come on now, don't play dumb.' I drew up the contents of the folder the Ayrshire Post reporter had given me. 'I'm talking about the gang arrests. The illegal immigrants that turned up in the ship's hold. The drugs haul. The smuggled vodka, oh and the ciggies, enough ciggies to sink a battleship … Do I go on? Do I even mention the cannabis plants and the hydroponics kit?'
He put his hands flat on the desk and pushed himself up. 'You're talking about criminal acts. And, for that you need to see the police, Mr Michie.' He walked towards the door. I felt the swish of his brisk movements as he passed me. 'I'd like you to leave now.'
I eased myself off the edge of the desk. 'Are you seriously suggesting I take this to the police?'
He looked down at the floor. 'If you have concerns you should take them to the proper authorities.'
I laughed out loud, raised my plaster cast. 'This is how the police deal with my concerns, Councillor.'
His mouth twitched; he glanced at the door. A few beads of moisture had formed on his upper lip. He was losing patience with me. 'Then perhaps you'd be better keeping your concerns to yourself.'
I leaned forward and placed a heavy hand on the Councillor's shoulder. 'I wouldn't count on that as a strategy, mate." I grinned, a wide one.. "You see, I have some very definite ideas about what's been going on down here and I'm not alone.'
'What do you mean by that?' He'd lost his steel.
'I mean, you should pick your friends more carefully, Councillor.' I tapped my stookie off his buttonhole as I left. He winced, then grimaced as I grabbed the door handle and closed it firmly behind me.
In the corridor I felt my 'brows moisten. I knew the phrase I was looking for was setting the cat amongst the pigeons but I'd have to wait and see if the strategy worked.
Jennifer was sitting behind the counter as I reached the reception area once more. I walked towards her and took a pen from the stand on the counter. I wrote my mobile number on the blotter. 'When your conscience returns, give me a call.'
Chapter 20
By the time I made my way back to the guest house on Queens Terrace the early evening light was on the wane. Orange street lamps had started to fizz overhead, illuminating a landing-strip that led all the way to the County Buildings. I watched a mother and toddler struggling along the street in a hurry to beat the downpour the dark sky threatened. I wouldn't be stopping out tonight. I'd prepared for the occasion with a full bottle of Talisker and some Marlboro red-tops. A part of me wanted to rebel, to warn me of my advancing years and pull tight on the reins of responsibility. But sometimes the self-destruct switch had to be flipped and now was one of those times.
Mrs Kerr was re-arranging umbrellas in the coat-stand by the hallway as I entered the guest house. Her gaze seemed to alight on my plaster cast before it even came into view. She threw her hands up to her mouth and spoke through her long, thin fingers. 'Oh, my word … what in the name of the wee man has happened to you?'
'Just a bump.'
She raised her head as I spoke, took in the bruising that was coming out on my face. 'Just a bump … what from, a steamroller?'
I tried a sneer. 'Something like that.'
Mrs Kerr walked towards me and placed her cold palms on my cheeks. 'Oh, you poor dear.' She shook her head. 'You should get up them stairs and into bed … I'll bring your tea up tonight.'
I had all the nourishment I needed in my carrier bag. 'Eh, thanks, but I've already eaten. Had a very heavy lunch. Think I might just try and get my head down for a bit. Maybe grab some telly.'
She removed her hands from my face, placed them in the pockets of her tabard. She seemed lost for words as I squeezed passed her, gripping the off-licence carrier tight to my chest.
My room was freezing, so I kept my coat on. As I closed the curtains I watched the thin material catch the draft from the sash window and float inwards. I bent down towards the foot of the radiator and turned the nozzle. Tried to tempt some heat into the room. I knew it was a loosing battle as the familiar drip, drip started from within the radiator. It would take an hour to reach the neighbourhood of tepid. I leant over for the heavily scratched glass by the sink and unscrewed the cap on my bottle of whisky.
The first shot burned a warm glow down the middle of my chest; I felt immediately at home. As I refilled, the cold of the room quickly became an irrelevance. The time-worn furnishings and the musty air were nothing but a backcloth to the main event: whisky oblivion.
When my wife left, it was whisky that extended a warm hand. In Ulster, when I was shown the door, it was whisky that welcomed me back to the land of the living. And now, with a plaster cast in tow and a buckled head it was my old friend I turned to once again.
I thought of my mother, my repulsion at the state of the house, of the poor dog, and her: sodden drunk and lying comatose on the floor.
'Who are you to judge, Doug?' I mouthed towards the glass. 'Who indeed …'
I had bawled out my sister over the state of my drunken mother, and been asked in return who the hell I thought I was talking to. Claire's words rung in my ears now: 'Where were you when Dad died and I had to put her back together?'
'You know I was in Ulster … I couldn't leave the job,' I'd replied, pathetically.
'The job. That's all I ever heard from you, Doug … and tell me, where's the precious job now?'
I didn't have an answer. Claire's words seared into my solar plexus, knocked me back worse than any blows.
She wasn't finished. 'And what makes you think you have a right to come home now, after all these years, and start dictating how we live our lives?'
'Claire, I was worried about her … the place was a mess, the dog wasn't getting out … I—I—'
'Shut up, Doug. This is all too little, too late … where was this concern when she needed it? Where were you when we needed you?'
My reply was beyond weak. 'I was in … Ulster.'
Claire seized on that. 'I live in Inverness. That's a four-hour drive, but I did it every week after Dad died. I was there for her. I pulled her through but I can't be there 24/7. I have a husband and children.' She started to get tearful. I realised now how unfair I'd been. 'I can't do everything, Doug, I can't …'
The line died.
I could still hear her tear-filled voice, the pain and the hurt, but also the anger. She resented me. I'd let her down, hadn't held up my end of the load after our father died and I saw that now. But I still knew it was all about the job. I had put the job first many a time, every time. It cost me my wife, and my family. My health had been ransacked, and in the end, what had it meant to the RUC? Nothing. I thought I was doing good, keeping the streets safe. But I was wrong. I was merely an instrument that in the end outlived its usefulness. The people with their hands on the levers of Ulster didn't need, or want, me messing with their machinery.
I jumped with a start at a loud knock on the door. I hadn't realised the time. I was sitting in darkness, the glass in my hand empty. My back ached as I rose from the chair to address more banging on the door.
'I'm coming.' I could hear my words slurring.
I reached the wall, turned the light switch. My eyeballs retreated from the glare. I scrunched my lids tight again. 'Oh, man …'
'Doug … You okay in there?'
I recognised the voice. 'Yeah, coming.'
As I turned the handle on the door, Mason pushed through. He walked into the middle of
the room. His girth seemed to fill the place. 'What were you doing? I was banging on that door for ages.'
My eyes hurt as I turned into the room; my knees loosened on the few steps towards the bed. I spotted Mason picking up the bottle of Talisker, tipping the open neck up. 'Have you tanned the whole bottle?'
I shrugged. My backbone felt like it had been removed and replaced with packing foam.
'All right,' said Mason. He headed towards the door. 'I'll try and get you some coffee. Because, my friend, we have some very serious stuff to talk about.'
Chapter 21
We took Mason's car because I was in no fit state to drive. As I sat in the front passenger's seat I felt uneasy, the glare of the lights above the road piercing into my eyes. I gouged my knuckles into my head in an effort to stop the hammering that was going on there but it made no difference. One day I'd realise that there was no release in drink, just a temporary fleeing sensation. When that started to wear off, you paid. Big time.
'Where are you taking us?' I called out to Mason.
'To try and sober you up …'
'Is there nowhere closer?' I pointed to a signpost, 'We'll be in Kilmarnock next.'
Mason turned an eye on me, glowered. 'There's a Little Chef up here. They open late and I can pour some coffee into you.'
I felt myself grip tight to the seatbelt. 'There's a Little Chef on the A77.' He smiled. I didn't see what was funny. 'What have I said?'
'That shut years ago … how long have you been away?'
I didn't want to answer that. The thoughts of Ulster and Claire were still rattling around in my head. 'Maybe too long.'
'You don't mean that? You couldn't wait to get away …'
'That was then.'
Mason edged into the middle of the road and applied the brakes. We were at a roundabout. 'Are you seriously telling me you're glad to be back?'
I turned, watched him spin the wheel through his hands and edge towards the exit. 'Well, apart from this …' I lifted my plaster cast, clattered it off the dashboard.
Mason had no reply. Even in my addled and inebriated state I could tell he harboured some shame about my injury. I allowed myself a vestige of gratitude for that: it could work in my favour. I needed Mason. I needed someone inside the force who could get to the bottom of who was looking after Jonny Gilmour and Councillor Crawford. I knew it went beyond a rogue officer or two — this was an organised affair. Too much was going on for it not to be; too much money was involved. If Ulster had taught me one thing, it was that money brought some serious players to the table.
We pulled up outside the Little Chef and Mason dragged himself from the car. He walked round to my side of the motor and pulled open the door. 'Can you walk?'
'Are you kidding?' As I rose from my seat, I began to doubt my cockiness. My legs felt light, my knees buckling beneath me. Mason put a hand on my elbow; I jerked it away. We somehow managed to make it through the car park and into an empty booth in the corner of the restaurant. Mason went for the coffees and returned with a large cup in each hand. He sat them both in front of me.
'Drink up,' he said.
I ventured a sip, then a couple more. The pressure behind my eyes began to ease. Mason seemed to be pleased but looked like he had something on his mind.
'What's up?' I said.
'What do you mean?'
'I've known you long enough to know when you've got a bug up your backside … you used to wear that face when we were on the night beat together.'
He smiled. 'Can't kid a kidder, eh.'
'That's what they say.' I took another sip of coffee and waited for him to get down to brass-tacks.
'Remember I told you I did some checking on you?'
I did. He'd asked questions about my release from the RUC; I still wasn't happy about that. 'You could have just asked me, mate.'
He leaned forward, placed his elbows on the table. He dropped his voice as he spoke. 'Well, I'm asking now.'
I didn't know where to begin. Rabbie's words: dare to be honest and fear no labour seemed a good place to start. But, what had happened in Ulster? I was still searching for the answer to that one myself. All I did know was that I'd messed up. I'd refused to toe the line and it cost me everything I'd ever worked for. 'You know I was … embedded.'
'Yeah, I got that much … a loyalist mob.'
I huffed; there was no loyalty amongst criminals. 'They were a rabble. Just a gang with a lot of unsavoury activities going on … the idea was for me to get to know them, get accepted.'
'And did you?'
I shook my head at the memory. 'Like a brother …'
I could tell I had Mason rapt; his attention was almost laser-guided. 'So, tell me how it went wrong.'
'I made a discovery that didn't sit well with me, a discovery about the top man …'
'The ganglord?'
'So to speak …'
'What do you mean?'
I felt my jaw tightening at the recollection of the night I'd discovered Riley's core business wasn't the drug dealing we thought — or the gun running, or the prostitution. 'He supplied girls.'
'He was a pimp, you mean?'
I looked away, stared into the grey pool of coffee that sat in the bottom of the cup. 'No, I mean he supplied girls.' I looked up from my cup, stared into Mason's eyes. 'Young girls. Eight. Nine. Ten years old.'
'Jesus …'
I saw Riley's face again, clear as rain in my mind. He was a monster, a beast. 'I told my boss, but he didn't want to do anything. So I told his boss and I was given the order to back off.' I tapped my spoon off the edge of the cup; the noise seemed to settle me. 'I was told, ordered, to sit tight and think of the bigger picture.'
Mason ran his large hand through his hair. 'I take it you didn't.'
'How the hell could I?' I threw down the spoon.
'Well, I know how this story ends … so what did you do?'
'If you know how it ends, you'll know Riley was shot.'
'By you?'
'No! God, no.'
'But you know who did it?'
I stood up. The legs of the chair scraped noisily along the floor as I pushed away from the table. 'Mason, you've no right to ask me that …'
He rose, fronted up to me. 'Why? Because the answer makes you a criminal too?'
I felt the muscles of my neck tighten as I gripped my jaw tight. 'Because there are some things in our line of work that you can never reveal. No matter what. You know that.'
He backed off. 'An eye for an eye, is that it, Doug?'
I forced a sarcastic laugh. 'You're kidding. Even I know that an eye for an eye leaves half the world blind.'
Chapter 22
Something my time in the RUC taught me was how to sober up in a hurry; your life could depend on it. I didn't know what was holding me back now. The dark thoughts? The sight of Mason looming over me? Or the fear of sobering up and realising my situation was every bit as bad as I feared? But I wanted to remain out of it.
I tapped my plaster cast off the table and swept aside the near-empty cup of coffee. 'I'm through.'
'I see that.' Mason raised an eyebrow as he spoke.
'I mean with the coffee.'
'Just get it down you, Doug.'
I looked up; he was frowning now. It was an expression I remembered from my school days back at Ayr Academy when teachers tired of asking nicely. The next step was going up a notch on the consequence scale. I raised the cup and downed the last of the grey liquid; the taste of cold coffee made me wince.
'Happy now?' I said.
Mason bit. 'I wouldn't go that far.' He rose from the table, started to fasten his jacket. 'Right, let's get you home.'
'Don't you want to … discuss things some more?'
Headshakes. 'Not tonight. You're in no fit shape. Besides, I think we've done enough talking.'
I stood to face him, made sure I was at my full height — somewhat shy of Mason's. 'You mean the time's come for action?'
'Maybe it has, but if that
's the case, the next move's mine.'
I felt my gaze shifting, my eyes narrowing to discern the hint of a change in expression. I knew what he meant, but I had no idea what he was planning. Somehow, the thought of Mason taking matters into his own hands buoyed my excitement level. I was a child at heart. I envisaged him running amok in the station, smacking heads, like an elephant in a state of musth.
'And what about this Councillor Crawford?' I said.
'What about him?'
'Who's going to take care of him?'
Mason turned for the door, but managed a few words in my direction. 'The Craft take care of their own.'
I knew what he was saying: Crawford had brought far too much heat down on himself. Drugs busts were one thing; murder was a whole other level. The Craft didn't survive this long without some hint of self-preservation. They'd hang Crawford out to dry before they let anyone bring opprobrium to their doorstep.
We headed out to the car park. A soft rain fell, gathering in shallow pools on the tarmac. Passing vehicles created a momentary floodlight effect on our path to the car, showing up a silver motor that looked familiar.
'Hang about,' I said.
Mason stopped in his tracks. 'What is it?'
I remove a Marlboro and lit up. 'That's a Lexus over there.'
Mason shrugged. 'So?'
'You know who drives one of them?'
Another shrug.
'Gilmour.'
The mention of Jonny Gilmour changed the expression on his face. Mason strode out into the car park in the direction of the car. I put away my cigarette, jogged to catch him. As we started to run, the car's engine bit, the headlamps went on.
'He's clocked us,' I said.
Mason didn't reply, lunged for the door handle and pulled it open. 'Hello, Jonny …'
Gilmour sneered from behind the steering wheel, tipped his head forward and looked over the car park towards the traffic. 'What are you doing?' he said.
I squeezed past Mason, grabbed Gilmour by the collar. 'When did you get bold enough to ask the questions, mate?'