How a Gunman Says Goodbye

by Malcolm Mackay

  ‘Listen, Calum,’ he’s saying. ‘You did a great job tonight, did me a real turn. I owe you. If I can ever repay the favour, I will.’

  Calum’s smiling, trying to take the awkwardness out of it. This is embarrassing for both of them. ‘I hope you never have to.’

  Frank’s nodding now. ‘So do I. Still, this business, you never know. Thanks.’ Hard words to say. So hard it almost sounds like he doesn’t mean it.

  ‘Forget about it,’ Calum’s saying, and he’s opening the door to get out. As he steps onto the pavement after closing the door, Frank pulls away. Calum’s walking along to his car, and he knows things have changed. It’s a horrible thing, very sudden, but a reality. This night has changed everything for a number of people, him included.

  He’ll never look at Frank the same way again. He was always the gnarled old veteran, the man who had seen and done it all. Done it all to a better standard than anyone else. The man who had killed more people in the city, and got away with it, than anyone else. A master of the trade. He’s still that person. He’s also now the person who was slumped in a corridor with two lousy peddlers standing over him. They said Scott was one to watch, a talent who was rising fast, but he let Calum in without even checking his ID. He can’t have been that sharp. The other one was just a good old-fashioned moron. And they still got the better of Frank. Once you’ve looked down on a guy like that, it’s hard to look up to him again. It’s not as if Calum and Frank were ever especially close. They were never master and apprentice. Still, Calum liked and respected him more than any other gunman he’d ever met. He still likes him, but a good deal of the respect has been left behind in Tommy Scott’s corridor.

  He’s dropping into his own car now, and pulling the gloves off with relief. Trying to clench his left hand, knowing that the discomfort will pass. How much longer is it going to be like this? Now he’s looking in the mirror, checking for specks of other people’s blood on his face. He can’t see any. He’s starting the car. There won’t be anyone in the club now. Jamieson and Young will have left soon after Calum and Kenny. They wouldn’t want to be there any longer than necessary. He’s pulling away and driving back home, thinking about his clothes. Thinking about Emma and his clothes. She’s back in his world, now that he’s done the job. There’s bound to be specks of blood on them. He’s going to have to get rid of his coat and his trousers, his shoes too. He’ll do it tomorrow, when she’s gone to lectures. In the meantime he’s going to have to treat them like he would normal clothes. Breaking habits, just to keep her around.

  He’s parking in what’s becoming his usual spot, just a little way along from the front door. It’s nice to start forming habits in your new home. He’s making his way up to his flat. Still not entirely safe. Could be a bunch of cops waiting for him at the top of the stairs. They could be in the flat, talking to Emma right now. He’d left his keys in the car while he was doing the job; now he’s taking his door key out of his pocket and putting it in the lock. There’s always a moment of nerves returning from a job. Who could be in there? There are worse people than the police. People like to get their revenge quickly, no matter what the common serving suggestion may be. It’s worse now. No matter who else might be in there, Emma definitely will be. He has to face her. Remember the lie, try to make it sound convincing, don’t push it too far. The door’s open, the flat’s in darkness. He’s switching on a light. Nothing lurking. A little relief.

  There’s one more thing he needs to do before he goes back to bed. Another break with common sense. Jamieson asked, so he has to do it. If the boss asks you to do it, then you do, regardless of how stupid it is. He left his mobile on the kitchen table when he went out. Hopefully Emma didn’t get up and see it. Not likely, she’s a sound sleeper. He’s picking it up, looking for Jamieson’s number. He wanted a yes or no answer to the question: Has Frank been rescued? Calum’s texting the word ‘yes’ and nothing else into the message. It’s a stupid breach of standards. A cop could easily find out that he texted Peter Jamieson at twenty to three in the morning. How would he explain that one?

  Too many breaches of etiquette throughout this job. Too many ways for it all to go wrong. It’s hard to believe that Jamieson would have sent him in there to save anyone else. Probably only Frank has earned the right to be rescued. God knows, they wouldn’t have sent Frank in for him. The more he thinks about it, the more he thinks they should have left Frank to his fate. He’s sent the text message. He’s taking off his coat, hanging it in the hall with the others. He’s pulling the coat next to it across a little. Shoes off, pushing them halfway under the radiator, out of sight, for the same reason. Normally he’d strip off and put all the clothes in a bag. Not tonight. Not with Emma there. She complicates everything.

  He’s walking into the bedroom, silent in his socks. He’s pulled his trousers and top off, and now he’s pulling his socks off, sitting on the side of the bed.

  ‘How’s your brother?’ a slightly muffled-sounding voice is asking from the other side of the bed. She’s facing the other way, half-asleep.

  ‘Drunk and apologetic,’ Calum’s saying, throwing his socks onto a chair and getting in under the duvet. Say as little as you can get away with. Loading it with detail only makes it sound less convincing, more rehearsed.

  ‘He didn’t give you any bother?’

  ‘Bother? No, course not.’

  ‘Huh.’ And that’s all she’s saying. Enough to tell him that she knows he wasn’t picking up his brother. Calum’s not going to sleep tonight.

  18

  Shaun Hutton’s pulling up outside the tower block. What an ugly-looking building it is. Ugly-looking area. It says two twenty on the clock in the car he’s using. Almost exactly an hour since Shug called him. Not so long that he can’t justify the time taken; long enough to keep his word to John Young. Timing’s important to any gunman.

  No activity around the building, which is a good thing. If Young got a man to the scene first, he might be in there now. If he’s been and gone, then the police might not be far away. Don’t get caught at the scene with a gun in your pocket. Whatever else happens, don’t get caught at the scene by the police. He’s moving fast, into the building and along to the lifts. If Young’s man hasn’t been yet, then he might be here soon. Could be a nasty encounter. Get this done quick. No sign of anyone yet. Going up, not sure what he’s going to find ahead of him. Uncertainty is always an enemy. The lift’s opening and he’s stepping out into an empty corridor.

  There’s no sign from the corridor of anything having happened. No doors open, nobody gathering round a doorway to gawp at a bloody body. He’s standing at the door to Scott’s flat, listening. No sounds coming from within. If he could hear Jamieson’s man in there, then he’d happily leave him to it. Shug’s not paying quite enough for him to barge in and take on someone else’s man. No sound from inside. He’s knocking on the door. Waiting; still no response. Knocking again, louder this time. Don’t wake the neighbours. He’s starting to get impatient. He’s starting to realize he’s probably not the first, or even second, armed man to turn up at this flat tonight. He’s had his gloves on since he picked up the car, so he has no qualms about handling the letter box. He’s lifting it up, peeking inside.

  Jamieson’s man left the dim light on in the corridor when he made his escape. The two bodies are easy to see. Hutton doesn’t know which is which–just two nondescript young men. One of them is close to the door, slumped sideways against the wall. There’s blood visible on the wall beside him, although Hutton can’t see how high up it goes. There could be a lot more, he knows, if the boy was standing when the gunman shot him. The other body’s further away, lying on his back by the door at the other end of the corridor. He can’t see the wound from here, but he can see a gun lying by the body’s right hand. The gunman left a weapon behind. Interesting. Playing games with the police. Dangerous game to play. He doesn’t know which body belongs to which person, but he knows neither of them belongs to Frank MacLeod. Both
look much too young for that.

  He’s walking back to the lift. Moving more quickly now. There have been at least two gunshots, a real chance the police are close. Hutton can’t help but smile to himself. They actually sent someone to rescue old Frank. Or maybe Frank found his own way out. That would be impressive, would prove the old boy still has sparkle. Either way, Shug’s going to be pissed, and Hutton’s going to have to handle this the right way. First priority is to get some distance between him and the building. He’s in the lift and making his way down. Right now there’s only the rumble of the old lift, then the ping and the sliding doors. As soon as they’ve shut behind him, it’s silence. No sirens, no cars pulling up outside the building. He’s out and across to the car. There isn’t a person stirring in the world around him.

  Hutton’s long clear of the building now; he’s been driving for more than ten minutes. The cops aren’t going to surround him any more; he can relax. Time to play a part. He’s thinking about Shug, what his reaction’s going to be. You never know with an inexperienced boss. They’ll often look for someone to blame. Anyone other than themselves. They like others to see them lash out, to punish people they think have let them down. There are two dead guys lying in a grotty flat, whom Hutton will make sure take more than their fair share of the blame. He’s driving back to his own car, climbing into it and getting back to his house. Shug must think the job’s been done by now. Nice and simple. Kill an old man, weaken Peter Jamieson. This isn’t going to be the phone call he’s expecting.

  ‘Hi, Shug, it’s me. I wake you?’

  ‘No, go on.’ He sounds guarded already. His gunman shouldn’t be calling him straight after doing a job. It was Hutton who told him so.

  ‘Look, I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but you have two dead bodies and no old man. I got there; there was no answer at the door. I looked in the letter box. Two dead guys in the corridor. Young guys. I’m guessing your guys. They ain’t Frank MacLeod anyway. He was nowhere. Must’ve got out. You got a problem.’

  There’s silence on the other end. Shug’s nice and smiley, but he can be tough when he wants to be. Wouldn’t be here otherwise. ‘So they’re both dead?’

  ‘Looks a hell of a lot like it.’

  Shug hasn’t said much, he’s thinking it all through. Hutton’s waiting, not going to press him.

  ‘What’s your opinion?’ Shug’s asking him. His tone is cold. It’s as if he’s telling him that he’s not beyond suspicion himself. Nobody should be. Fair enough.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Hutton’s saying with a sigh. ‘There was a gun still in there. Maybe Frank got the better of them. Unlikely, but not impossible. Not like your boys were the best in the business. Maybe he got a message out. Could have been a set-up from the start, but I doubt it, too much risk. My best guess? One of your men made a call or two to brag about their capture. Word got out. Peter Jamieson or one of his men found out and went straight round there. They did it in a hurry, left a gun behind. Wouldn’t be a surprise if the police find something interesting there. You do a job in a hurry, you make mistakes.’

  More silence. Hutton can almost hear the wheels turning. ‘That would sound most likely,’ Shug’s saying now.

  Hutton needs to go on the offensive, time it right. ‘Listen to me, Shug. You need to sort out who you have working for you. I went round there, put myself in the middle of it. I must have just missed the shooting. I mean, seriously, by a couple of fucking minutes. I get there after a shooting and the bloody cops could be there. I was lucky I didn’t walk into the middle of a dozen fucking detectives. Think about that. I turn up in that shit-storm with a gun in my pocket and I’m looking at twenty years, minimum. Seriously, I need to know you have reliable people working for you. I need to know that when I go to a job, you have good people there. I don’t know these kids, but they fucked up bad. Could’ve taken me down with them. Could’ve ended up taking you down too.’

  ‘I understand that,’ Shug’s saying. There’s sharpness in that voice. Sounds a little bitter, defensive. ‘You’re right; you shouldn’t have been put in that position. I’ll speak to you soon.’

  Shug hangs up first. Hutton’s standing in his living room, in the darkness. He’s done his work for the night. Shug’s new, but he’s a smart one. People come into the business all the time, thinking they can get rich quick. People like Shug. They have legitimate money behind them, or they have some connection to the business that they think gives them a chance. Most don’t last. Some only do it because they’re in trouble. Get rich quick and get out. Doesn’t work that way. Most will lose more than they make.

  Shug might be different. He’s not desperate, for a start. He seems to understand the business. He took on Peter Jamieson, and he hasn’t lost yet. That makes him dangerous. It takes a dangerous man to survive a battle with Jamieson this long. He may not win in the end, but he can cause a lot of damage before he departs. Damage to the people he thinks are against him. Hutton’s thinking about that as he undresses for bed.

  19

  ‘I said to the other guy a wee minute ago. I heard them last night, thumping about. Not the first time. He’s not a bad lad, but sometimes they make a bit of a racket, so they do. Woke me up last night, so it did. It stopped, though, so I left it. Came up this morning to have a word. Not the worst kid, that boy. You can talk to him–not like some of them. Some of them treat you like crap. Real bastards. It’s the parents. Having them too young. So I come up. I knock on the door. Nothing. I think, uh-huh, what’s going on here? So I looked in the letter box. Wouldn’t normally, you understand. I was concerned. That’s when I saw them. Then I called your lot.’

  Your lot. Michael Fisher’s been a cop for twenty-three years; he loathes the dismissive description of the police. He’ll never get used to it now. So many people who can’t accept that the police are on their side. He’s long since decided to get on with helping people, whether they like it or not.

  He got the call less than half an hour ago. In his house, all alone, getting ready for work. Possible murder-suicide, possible double murder. Two young men, found in the flat belonging to one of them. He’s there now because one of them has possible links to organized crime. Thomas Scott was once reported for dealing, but was only charged with possession. Even that charge went nowhere; he got away with a few hours’ community service that he probably never carried out. The other dead man, Andrew McClure, doesn’t seem to have any record. Only known as a friend of Scott’s. If they were friends, then McClure was almost certainly involved in the same life as Scott.

  Fisher came straight here from home. He found a few cops here ahead of him, some plods and a couple of detectives. The scene wasn’t under control yet–people wandering around the corridor and using the lifts. That changed drastically two minutes after his angry arrival.

  After a glance at the bodies, he had sought out the man living downstairs. He’s the one who reported it, the closest thing they have to a witness. The only one who seems to have anything to say for himself.

  ‘This noise they were making, can you describe it?’ Fisher’s asking him now.

  ‘Describe it? It was noise. Thumping about. Could have been music or anything, I don’t know–the things that pass for music. It was noise, so it was. I heard it, I was going to say something, but it stopped. I came up this morning to have a word. That’s it.’

  It’s obvious to Fisher what’s happened. The man in the flat below heard the gunshots. He would have known they were gunshots. He thought about doing something, but didn’t want to get involved. Not yet, anyway. Wait until the danger has passed. Next morning he comes up to nosy about, sees the bodies. He calls the police and swears that he heard nothing sinister, just noise. He’s trying to keep himself out of it.

  Fisher’s scowling at him now. Hard to respect someone who stands in the way of an investigation just because being a witness is inconvenient. Two men are dead.

  ‘So this noise. It was loud enough for you to notice. How long did it la
st?’

  The man’s puffing out his cheeks. Colin Thomson, he introduced himself as, pointing out the lack of a p in his surname. Seems to matter to him. He liked being the centre of attention, until the questions got tough.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Thomson’s saying now. ‘Could’ve been for a short while. Maybe not. I noticed it once or twice, that’s all. Woke me up, you see, so it might have been going on a while before it woke me up, I don’t know. Bothered me, is all. Inconsiderate. I went up this morning to tell him so. I’m not young any more, and my health hasn’t been good, you see.’ He’s pausing for a few seconds, waiting for an expression of sympathy that isn’t coming. ‘They’re saying his wee mate killed him and then himself. Is that right?’

  Fisher’s extricated himself from the pointless interview and gone back upstairs. Just standing in the doorway, looking at the two bodies, trying to take it all in. Work out the movements of a killer. If it was the boy with the gun beside him, then work out his movements. The first plods there reported it as a probable murder followed by suicide. It looked like two mates turned on each other. An argument over some stupid thing. There’s a gun in the flat. McClure pulls it out, waves it around. Scott says something provocative and McClure fires. Seeing that he’s killed his friend, and knowing he’s not capable of getting off with it, he turns the gun on himself. That’s the story the scene tells. The story it’s supposed to tell. It could be telling the truth. He’ll wait on the toxicology reports, to see if drugs were involved. If they were, then he might believe it. Otherwise, he’ll retain a healthy scepticism. When someone in that business dies, there are always other suspects worth looking at.