‘Well,’ she’s saying, staring at him with a bemused smile, ‘who was it?’
He’s been standing in the doorway looking at her for nearly twenty seconds. The phone’s still in his hand. ‘Oh, it was William,’ he’s saying, referring to his older brother. This is a lie he’s been preparing for a while. From the moment he realized he was going to let her spend the night at his flat. It’s thin, but plausible enough. ‘He’s stuck without a lift. Sounds a bit pissed. Has no money for a taxi. I said I’d go and get him. He’s always a good sport for me.’ Don’t give too much detail–that would be unnatural. Just tell her what she needs to know. Sound a little put out, but forgiving towards your brother. Not so annoyed that it prompts her to make something of it.
‘Huh,’ she’s saying. ‘I hope you give him what for, dragging you out at this time.’
He’s smiling and nodding as he’s pulling on a plain hooded top. Someone’s going to get what for.
Does she know? It seemed like a knowing smile was threatening to break out, when she said that about giving William what for. He’s out on the street, getting into his plain car. A car incapable of drawing attention to itself. He knows what’s going to happen. He’ll go to the club, there’ll be some sort of emergency and he’ll have to go and work a job. She must know. She’s too smart not to have realized that he’s up to something. As long as she only suspects that he’s a criminal. As long as she doesn’t know he’s a gunman. If she thinks him no more than a rogue, then she might keep mistaking him for a decent human being. He’s pulling away from the flat. There’s still a little discomfort in his left hand when he grips things. The steering wheel, for one. Presumably a gun too, although the last time he handled one was when he killed Lewis Winter. More than two months ago. Feels a lot longer.
13
Sitting in the boys’ old flat. Perched on the radiator in the living room. It’s dark in the flat–electricity’s been cut off. No curtains over the windows, though; plenty of street light and moonlight to show the scene. It’s the second time Detective Inspector Michael Fisher’s come here. Calum MacLean is involved. That much he’s sure of. All he has are phone records. It’s his investigation, but he can’t make it move. The phone records show that Glen Davidson called Calum MacLean. Davidson made the call from the home of Shug Francis. Within twenty-four hours Davidson’s gone missing and MacLean’s moved house. Now put that together to form a coherent investigation. Can’t do it.
The Lewis Winter murder. Make Glen Davidson number-one suspect. He’s a gunman, Fisher knows that. He made the call from Shug’s house. So let’s say Shug hired him to hit Winter. A deal gone wrong. Makes sense so far. Conjecture, but believable. So who the hell’s MacLean? And where the hell’s Davidson? The first question Fisher can answer to some degree. MacLean’s nearly thirty, no police record, from the city. No record of work. Fisher hasn’t found his new address yet, but that’s only a matter of time. Found out that he has a brother and a widowed mother. No point questioning either of them yet. Don’t let MacLean know he’s on the radar until there’s something to throw at him. Brother’s name’s come up in a couple of investigations before. Owns a share in a garage that’s been under suspicion previously. Nothing major, but worth noting. If big brother’s involved in the criminal industry, it’s not a huge leap to suspect little brother is, too.
If Calum MacLean works for anyone, it’s Peter Jamieson. It’s become slowly obvious that Shug Francis and Peter Jamieson are at war with each other. It was one of his own men that brought him that suggestion. Turned out to be sound. The rumours around the city are that Shug’s making a pest of himself. It’s still Jamieson’s fight to lose, but Shug’s at least making him work for it. That would suggest Shug making multiple moves against Jamieson’s men. Was Winter Jamieson’s man? Not according to rumour. Closer to Shug, if anything. So let’s stick to the theory of a deal going sour. MacLean, on the other hand, he may well be one of Jamieson’s. So, what are we saying? After getting rid of Winter, within a week Shug sent his gunman to try and take down one of Jamieson’s men? Hmm. Not so likely. Not so soon after Winter. Something happened here, though. Right in this flat. It’s why Fisher’s back.
MacLean had been gone a week or two by the time Fisher tracked him down. The landlord wasn’t helpful. Shifty bugger, that one. Didn’t want to say anything. Fisher got a forensics team in, got them to look around the place. The flat had been deep-cleaned. Not a fingerprint in the whole place. Furniture and carpets were gone. Fixtures had been cleaned to a high standard. Walls, too. Damaged the wallpaper in a couple of rooms cleaning it, but they didn’t seem to care. Cleanliness the priority. Checked the light sockets. They’d been cleaned too. Even the damned ceilings. Forensics checked the bathroom and kitchen for signs of hairs or skin. Came away with nothing. A professional clean. The kind that a large criminal organization can carry out to cover tracks. The kind Peter Jamieson would be smart and careful enough to order.
Something happened here, but what? He needs to tie MacLean to Jamieson. Needs to find out what exactly MacLean does for Jamieson. Has to be something important, otherwise why target him? There’s one theory that ties things together. Winter does a deal with Shug. MacLean then lures him to work for Jamieson. Shug finds out. Punishes Winter for being a traitor and tries to send a message to Jamieson. That might work. Not the greatest theory, but the best he has right now. If he could locate Davidson, that might help. Did he do a runner or was he removed? Running is the most likely. Maybe he was screwing Shug, too. No loyalty amongst these people. So Davidson tips off MacLean. Davidson lies low, MacLean makes a hasty move.
Fisher’s rubbing his eyes. It’s late. Too late for this. Too late in the day, too late in the investigation. Standing in an empty little flat, trying to work out where the fuck your investigation went. Not one convincing option. It’s tied him up in knots and left him hanging. The Winter case has run away from him. Winter was never important enough to get a lot of attention. When it became clear that they didn’t have enough information to arrest anyone, the team started moving on. Fisher’s DCI didn’t want resources wasted on a dead end. Might have been a different story if the victim wasn’t someone so overwhelmingly pathetic. Winter was a low-level dealer. A failure all his life. Too guilty for sympathy. Too small to lead to a big conviction. So all they get is a four-month jail term for his ex, and a suspended three-month term for her one-night stand for perverting the course of justice. Fast-tracked because it was such minor stuff.
Fisher’s leaving the flat. He’s always thought it helped to be at the scene. Walk the criminal’s path. See what they saw; judge how they would have reacted. That’s fine, when you know what the crime was. When you know a crime has even happened here. He doesn’t. It’s a guess. One he has no solid evidence to back up. It’s that nagging feeling. The sense that this is a chance and, if he misses it, there won’t be another one for years. A chance for a crack at Peter Jamieson and his organization. Shug Francis too, but he’s smaller. Jamieson would be the big prize. The biggest prize of Fisher’s career. The biggest arrest in organized crime in the city for years.
He’s out of the flat now, into the corridor. Putting the front-door key in his pocket. He’ll keep a hold of that, just in case. He’s shaking his head as he walks out into the cold. A lot of cops wouldn’t even know this was a chance. Maybe wouldn’t care. Would decide it was too tough, and wait for the next one. He’s a good enough cop to know that this is a chance he ought to take. Just not good enough to take it. Fisher’s under pressure from above. They want him to move on to other investigations. If anything else comes along relating to Winter, then he can go back to it. Until then, get on with more productive things. Dropping into the driver’s seat and turning on the engine. Glancing at the clock on the dashboard. One forty in the morning. Hanging around empty flats at stupid o’clock looking for inspiration. Getting desperate. He knows it, so does everyone else. Go get some sleep. Start again in the morning. Nothing’s going to happen tonight.
14
The door to the office has burst open and Jamieson’s marched in. Kenny has stayed behind in the snooker hall; he knows this isn’t his place. The office is for important people only. Jamieson can’t hide his disappointment that Calum’s not here yet. He always takes everything so bloody slow. Careful is fine, but tardy is annoying.
‘You get a piece for him?’
‘Top drawer of your desk,’ Young’s saying to him. He’s relieved that someone else is here. He feels less vulnerable. The silence is broken, the emptiness chased away. ‘I haven’t touched it, obviously.’
Jamieson’s nodding, but not listening. He’s standing behind his desk, showing no sign of wanting to sit down. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he’s saying under his breath to nobody in particular. Now he’s shaking his head.
Two minutes have passed. Another two. Jamieson just standing there, Young sitting on the couch. There’s been no warning. Just a sudden knock on the door.
‘In,’ Jamieson’s saying loudly. The door’s opening and Calum’s stepping inside, closing it behind him. Typical of him to be able to sneak in without anyone hearing, Young’s thinking. Probably a good sign. Jamieson’s sitting down now. Time to look professional, even if you don’t feel it. Calum doesn’t know what he’s walking into. He won’t enjoy finding out. ‘Sit down,’ Jamieson’s saying. ‘How’s your hand?’
‘Right one’s fine,’ Calum’s saying as he’s sitting down opposite Jamieson, ‘left one’s still a little stiff when I grip things. I’m right-handed, so…’ he trails off. It has a curious feel, being in the office in lamplight. Feels like they’re sneaking around Jamieson’s own office. Usual routine, though. Facing Jamieson, Young off to the side, just out of view.
Just come straight out and tell him. He has no opportunity to back out anyway; you’ve drawn him too close for that. ‘I need you to go and do a job,’ Jamieson’s saying, and glancing at his watch. Twenty to two. This is cutting it. ‘Frank went to hit Tommy Scott. Scott and another guy jumped him. They’ve got him at Scott’s flat. They’re waiting for… another gunman to turn up and finish him. You’ve got about half an hour to get there first, turn the tables.’
Calum’s not saying anything. Sitting there, listening, taking it all in. Work out what it really means. Read between lines. They jumped Frank. Shouldn’t happen. Someone’s tipped Jamieson off. Seems odd. Must be the gunman who’s going round to do the job. He’s sold them time. Now they want Calum to go and rescue Frank. There’s little worse than a rescue job.
Jamieson can see that the wheels are turning. Give him detail, and then send him on his way. Tell him only what he needs to know. ‘Kenny’s going to drive you there. He’ll drop you off outside the building–he knows where it is. You’re looking for flat 34B. Second-from-top floor of a tower block. Thirteenth floor. Should only be two people there with Frank. Get rid of them. You and Frank can get away in Frank’s motor.’ He’s reaching into the top drawer of his desk, taking out a bag. Calum’s already guessed what’s in there.
‘I need gloves and a balaclava,’ he’s saying matter-of-factly.
Jamieson glances across to Young. He’d thought Calum would take these things from home. He should have. If Emma hadn’t been there, he would have. He’s not going to give them an explanation; they also get only the details they need. Young’s getting up. There’s a couple of balaclavas in a box in the storeroom. The box marked ‘Lost and found’, in case an inquisitive officer of the law happens across it. There’s a few boxes of clear surgical gloves that the cleaners use.
‘You need to be damn quick about this,’ Jamieson’s saying, as Young hurries out to the storeroom. ‘You need to get Frank. I want Scott and his mate dead. Mostly Scott. The mate’s a dickhead, a hanger-on, but he’ll be a witness if you leave him. Scott’s been a fucking nuisance. Get rid of him.’
‘And the other gunman?’ Calum’s asking.
A brief pause. Hutton is Young’s contact. They should protect their useful contacts. They’re hard enough to come by. Too bad. Hutton knew what he was getting involved in when he called and gave them the warning. He shouldn’t expect favours in return. ‘If he turns up and you have to deal with him, then you deal with him. Hopefully he won’t show up. Play it by ear. Do what you need to, nothing more.’ That doesn’t need saying.
Young’s bounding back into the room. He’s not a natural runner, a little too chunky. He’s placing a black balaclava and a box of gloves on the desk.
Calum’s stuffed the balaclava into his pocket and quickly pulled on a pair of gloves. ‘How clean is the gun?’ he’s asking, taking it out of the cloth.
‘We’ve never used it,’ Young’s saying. ‘Been in storage since we bought it.’
Calum’s nodding. Might not be exactly clean, but clean enough. If the police link it to other people, then that’s other people’s problem. As long as it’s untraceable to Calum or anyone near him, he doesn’t much care. He’s checking the clip–it’s full. Now putting the gun into his pocket. ‘Don’t need those,’ he’s saying, nodding to the box of ammo. He doesn’t want to fire more than two shots. More than four and he’s in disaster territory. An entire clip and he’s in the middle of a fucking nightmare. Spare bullets should not be required. ‘Right. I’m off.’
Jamieson wants to say something. He wants to encourage Calum. He’d like to tell him to bring Frank back to the club, but that’s not professional. None of this is professional, but that would be crossing a line. ‘Calum,’ he’s saying as Calum is pulling the door shut behind him. He’s stopped to look back at Jamieson. ‘Text me when it’s done. Has it been successful? Yes or no.’
Calum’s walking along the corridor. Jamieson would never usually ask for a text. He shouldn’t be asking for it now. Calum’s not happy, but he hasn’t a choice. The boss asks, you do. The boss takes stupid risks because he’s emotional about the job, you suffer the consequences. Welcome to organization-work. Out into the snooker hall. He had nodded to Kenny on the way in, sitting on a table. Still there, hanging around in the dark.
‘You know where we’re going?’ Calum’s asking him.
‘Aye, I know,’ Kenny’s saying, getting up and walking briskly towards the door. It’s a rare opportunity for him to shine. Not often a driver gets any sort of real responsibility. Deliver this or that. Go and pick up this fellow. You need to know the city; you need to know how to drive without drawing attention to yourself. A short drive, but he’s looking forward to it.
15
They’re in the car. Kenny doesn’t know what to say, whether to say anything. He’s relaxed, he’d like to talk, but he’s not what counts. Whatever job this is, it’s obviously big and obviously hurried. He might never find out. You do the job and you don’t ask questions. You hope people recognize that you’ve shown restraint by not asking. It’s like that for most people in the business. If you’re not very near the top, then it’s hard to draw praise. If someone ever does praise your work, you’re not likely to hear it. Would be nice to get a few more compliments, a little recognition. Gunmen do. Importers do. People with stature. There aren’t many of them. Kenny just keeps on driving in silence. Some guys don’t like it when you make conversation, especially when they’re on a job. Calum seems like the sort who would resent someone else breaking his silence. He’s quiet even when there’s nothing going on. I’m just a glorified taxi driver, really, Kenny’s thinking. That’s how they all see him.
‘It’s up on the right here,’ Kenny’s saying as they approach the flats. ‘How close do you want me to get?’
‘Not too close. I need to get in unseen.’ Ideally he’d like to get in on the opposite side of the building from Scott’s flat, but neither of them knows which flat is his. Lack of preparation. Calum should know these things before he goes in to do a job. It’s going to be hard to creep up on the flat unseen, when you don’t know what you’re creeping up on. He might not actually need to creep. If Scott doesn’t know who he is, then there’s much less risk. If Scott
doesn’t know what Shug’s gunman looks like, either, then he could get right inside the flat unchallenged. Too much to hope for.
‘I’ll go past the building so you can see it,’ Kenny’s saying. ‘See what lights are on, I mean.’
There are no lights visible on the second-from-top floor. Not on the side of the building they’re facing, anyway. Doesn’t mean much. If Scott has an ounce of sense, he’ll have made sure no lights are visible. Kenny’s pulling up at the side of the road, an equal distance between two lamp posts. It’s a good effort, but meaningless. The street is bright; anyone who chooses to look will see them. Now the balaclava question. Do you wear it from the moment you leave the car, or put it on outside the flat? In theory, he might not need it at all. If he can get in without bumping into anyone, get to the flat, kill Scott and his accomplice and get out with Frank, maybe nobody will see him. Nobody who’s going to live to tell the tale. Big maybe. There could be CCTV cameras around. The sort of place a local council would put them up, to look tough on crime. Put the balaclava on now.
He’s pulling it over his head. It always feels uncomfortable–an unnatural thing to have your face covered up. He’s feeling the shape of the gun in his pocket, and turning to Kenny. ‘Okay,’ is all he says, and he’s getting out of the car. As soon as he’s closed the door, Kenny is pulling away. He’ll have more work to do tonight. Take the car to a garage, have it made safe. They’ll change the colour and the plates anyway. Calum has to trust them that it was a safe car to begin with, that nobody can trace it back to them. They’re all forced to trust each other to do a good job. You trust that they wouldn’t have reached this far in the business if they weren’t reliable. Surely people further up the chain would have spotted the lucky but useless before now.
How a Gunman Says Goodbye Page 7