Jamieson’s sticking out a hand, Frank’s shaking it. There are smiles, as though they’re not about to have an awkward conversation. Trying to convince themselves that it’s just business as usual, Young can see. Both these men are struggling with their emotions.
‘How are you, Frank?’ Jamieson’s asking with the usual bounce in his voice.
‘Feeling better than I have for a few years,’ Frank is saying, but his tone tells another story. Jamieson asked him that question almost a week ago; Frank had the same answer then, but more confidence that he meant it. Frank isn’t saying anything else; leave it for Jamieson to bring up the Scott incident. Jamieson isn’t saying anything right now, tapping the table lightly with his forefinger. Trying to think of a way to bring it up that sounds friendly. There’s no chummy-sounding way of telling someone they’ve blown it.
‘We both know what we need to talk about,’ Jamieson’s saying, ignoring the fact that there’s a third man in the room. This is what they always do. Young sits off to the side and stays silent, observing. Encourage the guest to forget that he’s there, and see if he gives something away. A worthwhile strategy, even with a friend.
‘We do.’ Frank’s nodding.
Jamieson taps the desk again. ‘Tell me what happened,’ he’s saying. It’s a way into the conversation that doesn’t sound like an accusation.
Start at the beginning, Frank knows. Jamieson will want detail. ‘After you gave me the job, I scouted the boy. Checked the flat, checked his movements and worked out who was likely to be with him. I knew his mate would probably be there. Siamese twins, those two. I found out who else was in the building, what other flats were occupied. I was as careful scouting them as I ever was on any other job. Must have been a fluke. Either someone saw me, or someone leaked that this was happening.’
He’s left that hanging in the air for a few moments of silence. Giving Jamieson the chance to dispel any notion of a leak. A leak would turn everyone’s ire towards another target; give Frank a better chance of escaping his failures. It’s what Frank hopes happened, but he knows it’s unlikely. Most likely, someone saw him.
‘We don’t think there was a leak,’ Jamieson’s saying quietly.
‘Then someone must have spotted me. I took every precaution, as I always do. Some bastard must have lucked out, saw me, reported it to Scott. Anyway, I assumed I was clear when I went into the building on the night. Left it until late. Saw his mate McClure leave about eleven-ish, which should have raised an alarm. He stayed over with Scott a lot. Had the previous night as well. Lives with his parents, though, so not a huge shock to see him leave. Must have gone out the front and round the back. Makes me look stupid now, I know, but I couldn’t watch front and back at the same time. If I had seen him go back in, I would have known something was up. Would have called the job off. I went in thinking it was just Scott in there.’
He went in thinking wrong. Nobody will say it–you don’t embarrass a man like Frank–but all three men in the room are thinking it. Frank was sloppy. He saw McClure leave and didn’t bother following him to see where he went. You don’t have to follow him all the way home; just for a couple of minutes to make sure he’s going for good. One of the skills of the job, knowing who to follow and when.
‘I went up, found the flat. There was nobody else about. Quiet building, a lot of empty flats. I was standing at the door, making sure I had a grip on my piece. I gave the door a knock. Couple of knocks. Not too quiet, make it seem like someone with nothing to hide. I was waiting for him to answer. Give him twenty seconds, and then kick the door in. I didn’t want to have to do that. I wanted him to open it, make it less of a drama. I suppose he or his mate must have been in the flat opposite. I don’t know, but it must be how they did it.’
And Frank didn’t hear it. Didn’t hear the door open behind him, didn’t hear McClure creep up on him. Didn’t even think it could happen. Another black mark against him. They’re beginning to stack up. Jamieson knows what it’s like to be in a nervous situation. Sometimes all you can hear is your own blood pump. People like Frank need to be above that. Need to hear and see everything. No excuses. It hasn’t yet occurred to any of them that Scott and McClure handled the situation very well up to this point. This isn’t a meeting about the successes of others. This is a meeting about Frank’s failures.
‘I got a whack on the back of the head,’ Frank’s saying with a miserable smile. ‘Next thing I come to on the floor in Scott’s flat. They didn’t know what to do with me. Not a clue. They wanted me dead, that was obvious, but Scott was looking for excuses not to have to do it himself. So he called someone up.’
Ask this next question with care. Make it a friendly enquiry, not an accusation. ‘Did they say anything when you were in there?’ Jamieson’s asking. ‘Anything interesting? Ask you anything?’
Now they’re getting to it. He doesn’t want to know if they asked Frank anything; he wants to know if Frank told them anything interesting in return. ‘They were a couple of kids,’ Frank’s shrugging. ‘All they said was nervous nonsense. Bullshit. McClure did most of the talking. Making fun of me, trying to provoke a reaction. Showing off. He was hyper, but Scott was keeping it together. He was telling the other one to shut up. I think he had it about him, I really do. He could have been very useful, the boy Scott. Shame he didn’t work for us.’ The tone isn’t sharp, but the words are. Scott could have worked for them; Young didn’t spot the talent. A subtle barb.
‘They didn’t say anything that might be useful,’ Frank’s going on. ‘When Scott made the call, he took it into the other room. Spoke quiet. They should’ve killed me themselves,’ he’s saying, nodding as he does. That was their failure–not killing him straight away. ‘They didn’t have the bottle for it. They called up their contact with Shug, asked for a gunman to be sent round.’ Frank sees a flicker of reaction from Jamieson. He’s stopping, looking across at him.
‘I’m just thinking,’ Jamieson says. ‘They made a phone call to someone connected with Shug. Just interesting, is all. They ain’t learning lessons. Go on.’
Frank’s nodding. ‘I was sitting there, I don’t know, half an hour, three-quarters maybe. They wouldn’t let me move, so I just sat there and kept my mouth shut. Would have been suicide to go for the gun. Two of them, one of me. The other one, McClure, he was nearly climbing the walls by the time there was a knock on the door. Scott was nervous, but he was keeping it in check. Telling the other one to quieten it down. The knock comes: gentle, like it’s their gunman arrived for his work. Scott opens the door, lets him in. I saw it was Calum, saw right away. Jesus, that was a shock.’
Frank and Jamieson are both smiling. Both laughing. It’s the kind of industry where you have to be shockproof. People do things that logic simply can’t explain. You shouldn’t be shocked any more, certainly not at Frank’s age and after the career he’s had. They’re both smiling at the idea of Calum managing to shock him.
‘I’ll be honest: when I saw him, I thought he was there for Shug. I thought he was there to do the job. Good job I didn’t say anything, call him a traitor or anything. As soon as the door shut, he pulled out the gun and shot Scott in the head. Even then, I was thinking he was double-crossing Shug. Triple-crossing, whatever. He got rid of the other boy straight away, didn’t dawdle. I always think of Calum as someone who takes too much time with things. It was only when they were dead that he started wasting time.’
‘Wasting time?’
‘Yeah, setting the whole thing to look like murder-suicide. Pointless, I think,’ Frank’s saying, and he’s looking to Jamieson for agreement that isn’t going to come.
Maybe it’s a generational thing. Jamieson can’t escape the feeling that he’s suddenly talking to an old man, complaining about the new generation. Yes, Calum took a little extra time, but it was worth it. These days you need to take every chance that comes your way. In the old days, sure, you could gun and run. Not now. In a world of forensics and blood patterns and CCTV, you need
to grab every little advantage. God knows, there aren’t many. Harder and harder to get rid of a person cleanly–Frank should know that. He should know that anything that diverts police attention is a good thing. Anything that delays them is good. Even if it’s just for a short while. Delays mean something else comes along and steals their attention. It means the case loses officers before they start investigating what matters. It gives you a chance. In the old days, you didn’t need it. This isn’t the old days.
‘He shot the boy McClure in the side of the head to make it look like suicide, so I guess he had to follow up on that,’ Frank’s saying. Making a concession, grudgingly. ‘He put both their prints on the gun, more of Scott’s than McClure’s. He put the gun in McClure’s hand, then let the hand drop to the floor. Then he announces that Shug has a fellow coming round to kill me. I wasn’t too happy with that news. Wasn’t expecting anyone else to come along. We got down unseen, into the car. I drove him on to my car, then back to the club. I went home; lay low, acted as normal. The usual.’
Jamieson’s nodding along to all this, taking it all in. Frank standing in the flat, itching to leave, wanting Calum to hurry up. Calum carrying out a textbook job in nightmare circumstances, again. Before he sent Calum, Jamieson knew that he wouldn’t send Frank to rescue the boy. Now he believes that Frank wouldn’t have been capable, even if he’d tried. It’s crushing.
28
He doesn’t know that he’s on Jamieson’s mind; Frank’s too. Calum has other things to concern himself with. Emma’s at the flat. She lives with two other girls from the university, and she’s fleeing them now. Something about them causing a racket when she’s trying to study. She came to him for peace. He’s made her a cup of tea, and he’s leaving her alone in the kitchen. This ought to be pleasant. This should be Calum and his girlfriend, spending a little quiet time together. Like normal couples do. Instead, he’s sitting in the living room, worrying.
He never worried before. Never had anything to lose before. There were times when he was concerned for his brother and his mother. His brother more so, because he’s used him in jobs. Only minor use–borrowing cars from the garage William works at–but still, worth worrying about. People could use it as an excuse to go after William. Target his family to make him suffer. But there was never any possibility of William stopping being his brother.
Emma seems to have got bored, he can hear her moving around. Looking for distractions, probably. He’s standing in the kitchen door now, watching her wash her cup in the sink. She’s turned round and she’s smiling at him. Not a loving smile, more an understanding one.
‘Sit down,’ she’s saying, ‘let’s chat.’ She can be a little bossy, he’s learning, but it’s a flaw that she carries with charm. Not everyone does.
He’s sitting opposite her at the kitchen table. Small kitchen, a little cramped. He may not have a lot of experience with relationships, but he knows this is ominous. This is one of those relationship chats. Most people dread the ‘Where are we going?’ conversation. He’s dreading the ‘What have you been doing?’ one.
‘What’s up?’ he’s asking. Smiling; play it casual, make it seem as though he’s not concerned. She’s too smart to buy that. He’s trying so hard to convince himself he’s not concerned. He’s not even fooling himself. Calum ought to be starting this conversation. He should be pushing her towards the exits, for both their sakes. Can’t bring himself to. It’s weak and it’s unforgivable.
‘I’d like to talk about us.’ Just as he expected. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not one of those conversations,’ she’s saying with her smile. They both know she’s not being entirely honest. It’s always one of those conversations. ‘I just want to talk about work.’
There it is. That’s the word that scares him. She must see the reaction; she must see that she’s made him nervous. If there’s one thing that’s going to scupper their relationship, it’s talk of work. Maybe it’s a good thing; surely this will compel him to push her away.
Yet so many other guys in the business must have these conversations at some point. There are a lot of married men, or men in long-term relationships. A minority of gunmen, admittedly. Still, some of them manage to make relationships work, and yet the very thought terrifies him. This job does not go well with a relationship. It has to be one or the other.
‘I just think that your injuries seem healed–enough to work anyway,’ she’s saying. She’s giving him a curious look. This is her attempt to coax the truth from him. It won’t work. You don’t spend more than a decade guarding a secret like that and then blurt it out just because someone asks sweetly. Even if that someone is a cute girl you’re sleeping with.
‘I suppose they are,’ Calum’s saying. ‘You accusing me of skiving off?’ Asked with a smile, and with the hope of diverting the conversation.
‘No, just wondering if you have work to go back to, that’s all.’
Or what kind of work I have to go back to, Calum’s thinking. ‘I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not,’ he’s saying. This is something he hadn’t planned for. The relationship wasn’t supposed to last this long. She’s not supposed to be here.
‘Don’t you think you should find out?’ she’s saying, putting a little pressure into her voice.
‘Okay, I will.’ She’s obviously annoyed with his flippancy. ‘I’m okay for money, so it’s not like there’s a huge rush,’ he’s saying.
‘That’s not the point. Don’t you want to work?’
Boy, there’s a question and a half. If she had any inkling how much that question meant to him, she would have given him more time to answer. Instead, he’s sitting dumbly, while she picks up the conversation again. He’s watching her, seeing her get exasperated. Perhaps this is the way out. Let her think he’s lazy and pathetic, unwilling to work. That might drive her away.
She’s lecturing him on the responsibility his employers have, given that he was injured at work. ‘You were injured working, weren’t you?’
Now she starts digging, looking for details that he can’t provide. She’s trying to trip him up in this conversation. Trying to lure out a confession. He resents that. It’s hard, in any circumstances, to forgive someone for trying to trip you up. If she has any understanding of what he does, then she must understand this is not the way to find out about it. She needs to come straight out and ask. People rarely come straight out and ask. Be blunt and straightforward. No games.
‘Yeah,’ he’s saying, ‘I was injured working.’
‘At a printer’s.’
‘Yes, at a printer’s. Is there something else you want to ask?’ The tone is sharp enough to hurt. Emma’s looking down at the table. She’s thinking about whether she wants to answer that question or not. He’s wishing he hadn’t asked it.
She starts with a sigh. Preparing herself before she says something uncomfortable. Letting him know that something unpleasant for both of them is on its way. ‘I’ve been talking with Anna. You remember Anna; she was there the night we met. I think she hooked up with your friend George, the chatty one. She was talking about him. He never called her back, by the way, and she’s not too impressed with that. She wanted him to call her, so that she could turn him down. She was telling me that she’s sure your friend George is involved in some illegal stuff. She doesn’t know what exactly, but she’s convinced it’s not proper. That he’s some kind of gangster. I laughed at first, but she wasn’t joking. She also thinks you’re involved in the same sorts of things.’
He’s waiting, considering. She doesn’t know anything, she’s just guessing. Stabbing in the dark. Something he’s familiar with. ‘What sorts of things does she think I’m involved in?’
‘I don’t know exactly, but not good things. She thought maybe drugs, something like that. She thought George was the sort of guy who could be involved in anything. I don’t think of you that way. Am I wrong?’
How far do you take the truth? He has to give her something, Calum knows that. A little act of honesty, because outright lyi
ng isn’t an option any more. It might be an option if he wanted to get rid of her, really wanted to. He tells himself he does, but when push comes to shove, he can’t push or shove.
‘I’m not involved in drugs,’ he’s saying to her. It’s half-true. He’s never sold drugs. Never used them. He’s killed people for being involved in the drug trade, though. By any sensible measurement, that constitutes involvement. ‘I can’t guarantee that people I know aren’t involved in them in some way, though,’ he’s saying. ‘I know people I probably shouldn’t. I’ve done things that I guess you would frown upon. I don’t know how that changes things.’
She’s looking at him and nodding. ‘I don’t know, either.’
It’s Emma who doesn’t want to talk about it any more. She seems to think they need to stop and contemplate everything they’ve discussed so far. She’s packing books into her bag. She reaches up and kisses him.
Okay, she kissed quickly and left without saying anything else, but she still kissed. That has to mean something. Calum didn’t want to stop, but he can’t have a conversation by himself. He wants to resolve this–never leave things hanging. That comes from his work. You never leave loose ends flapping in the wind. If you need to deal with something, then deal with it now; leaving it will only cause trouble later on. Loose ends tend to entangle themselves in other things. He’s sitting at the kitchen table. Sitting in silence. It feels as though that was such an important conversation, yet he has no idea of the outcome. You never really know which conversations are vital. You’re not always a part of the ones that matter most to you.
How a Gunman Says Goodbye Page 14