Those same words. I’m not a gunman. Young’s starting to see the problem. George knows what it takes. He’s seen the sacrifices proper gunmen make. The lives they have to lead. It doesn’t appeal to him. It’s not squeamishness at pulling the trigger. It’s a fear of isolation. A fear of the lifestyle.
‘I won’t pretend that I’m not disappointed,’ Young’s saying. Still playing. ‘I think you’d be brilliant at it. Still, if you say no.’
‘I do,’ George is saying. A rare moment of insistence. Young doesn’t encounter that much in his job. It’s nice to see that it still exists. Defiance. Strength. Shows what a good candidate he would be for the job.
‘I thought you might say that. I was hoping otherwise, but there you go. I have another job I need you to do. No killing. No violence. Nothing much. Should be simple.’
‘Go on,’ George is saying. Smart enough to know that ‘should be simple’ is what often trips you up. It’s a term to be wary of.
‘You know Calum has a girlfriend. Emma, her name is. Seems like a nice girl. Seems smart too. She worries me. She’s too close to him.’ He leaves it hanging there. George should be able to work out the job from that.
‘You want me to… what, break them up?’ George is asking. A little incredulous, but not a lot. This is exactly why he doesn’t want to be a gunman. Everyone thinks they have a right to stick their nose into your business.
There was a little tone of disgust in his voice. Young’s watching him. George needs to be a little careful here. Honest is fine, but don’t push your bloody luck. Young’s always thought George knew where to draw the line. Time to find out.
‘I want you to be subtle about it,’ Young’s saying. ‘Careful. I don’t want any blundering into Calum’s business. This is for his own good. His own protection. Sometimes you have to do these things. Protect people from themselves. It’s the way of this life, you know that. Calum’s making a mistake here. He ought to see it himself. I’m surprised he doesn’t. Maybe he does. Maybe he just needs a push. We need to solve the problem for him. You’re going to do that. I know you can be subtle about this. Work out a way to end the relationship. Without acrimony. I don’t want him moping around. He should have been smart enough to do this for himself, you know. You’re doing him a favour.’
‘Uh-huh,’ George is saying. He has that reluctant look on his face again. ‘And if he finds out? And he decides it wasn’t a favour?’ It’s a silly argument. Calum wouldn’t do anything. He’s far too smart to turn nasty over something like this.
‘You can handle it,’ Young’s saying, and getting up.
This conversation isn’t going to go anywhere positive from here. Something else Young has learned. When to bail out of a difficult conversation. George knows he has to do the job. Sticking around is only going to lead to an argument. Get out. It was the conversation Young expected.
He’s in his car now. Wishing George would be a gunman. Wishing he had the ambition that so many, much more stupid people have. Then George wouldn’t have to do jobs like this. Wouldn’t have to lower himself to meddling in relationships. His choice. He’ll live with it. Do the job. Break them up. Keep it quiet. He won’t like it. Another lesson for him. You do jobs you don’t like. You do them and you move on with life. People have done worse. Much worse. Young could tell a few stories. The people he’s met. The things he’s ordered. The sacrifices people have made. He could tell. He never will, of course. That’s the other thing George is smart enough to know. You never talk. Not even to a loved one. Not even to complain.
33
It’s cold and dark now. Gloomy, that might be a better word. That’s certainly how Kenny feels. Parking two streets along from the house this time. Walking the rest of the way. Going to meet a copper. Looking around him with every third step. He could do little more to look guilty. Along the street and up to the front door. A last look around. There’s nobody following him. One of the first skills a good driver learns is spotting a tail. In through the front door, closing it quickly behind him. A new set of worries. There’s a light on in the kitchen, but who’s in there? Should just be the detective. Kenny’s shaking his head in the darkness. This whole experience is far more work than his job. Can it be worth this, just to have a safety net? Stupid bloody question. Of course it is. He needs that safety net, and this is the only place to get one. He’s forcing himself into the kitchen.
Fisher’s there, by himself. Sitting at the table, cupping a mug of something hot in both hands. Glancing up at Kenny, nodding hello, looking away. Not offering a cup of whatever homely brew he’s enjoying. Fine, be that way. Kenny’s sitting down opposite him. Waiting for the cop to say something. Can’t say something wrong if you only answer the questions you’re asked. Fisher’s taking another gulp from the cup. Bit of a slurp. Now he’s looking at Kenny. Not the friendly look of a cop to a valuable contact. Looks like he’s judging him. Looks like he’s not happy with something.
‘I need something from you, Kenny.’
‘What?’
‘Anything useful,’ Fisher’s saying. ‘I’m beginning to question how much use you’ll be. Whether I need you or not. Maybe I could get better info elsewhere. I’m not going to throw you to the wolves, not yet. But you have to give me something, Kenny. Something to make me think you’re worth the effort.’
It’s laying it on a bit thick, but he’s desperate. Investigation going nowhere. Cops being moved to other cases. Murder-suicide now widely accepted. Another failed case for Detective Inspector Michael Fisher. This is all about Shug and Jamieson. He has no contact close to Shug. He now has one close to Jamieson. Time to use it. Something. Anything. A thread to pull at that could lead to something big. It’s how these things often happen. You don’t rush directly to them, you stumble across them. Some bigmouth drops a hint that leads all the way to court.
Kenny’s stammering in front of him. Puffing out his cheeks. Obviously trying to think of something. Something that doesn’t incriminate himself or a friend. Information that could have come from someone else, so that he doesn’t expose himself. Give him time. Let him reach a conclusion he’s happy with. Whatever Fisher’s just said about him not being a good contact, he’s still the only one close to Jamieson. Push him around, but don’t push him out.
Thinking. Thinking some more. Anything that doesn’t implicate himself. Anything. It’s bad enough to have spoken to a cop. To speak and get no protection in return is unthinkable. A risk that could destroy him. There has to be something. There is.
‘There’s a rumour that’s been going round the club. Last couple of days. Just a rumour, but…’
‘Go on,’ Fisher’s saying. Most rumours are bullshit. Some rumours are gold.
‘People are saying that Frank MacLeod’s being put out to pasture. I don’t know how true that is.’ He’s pausing. ‘Came from one of the girls who work the bar. I think she’s close to Jamieson. Apparently Jamieson’s a bit upset about it. He got all drunk and chatty. I don’t think he named Frank, but she knew who he was talking about. Didn’t want to have to retire him, because he likes him so much. They don’t think he’s physically able to work any more. He had his hip done, you see…’ Kenny’s trailed off. He’s said about as much as he’s comfortable saying.
A jolt when he heard the name. He’s tried to hide it. Kenny’s so busy inventing barmaids he hasn’t noticed Fisher’s reaction. Frank MacLeod. Frank-bloody-MacLeod. And bloody is a very good word to use. A sly old bastard, if ever there was one. A gunman. Jamieson’s gunman, no less. A gunman going back many years before Jamieson came on the scene. How many people has he killed? Never once charged. Never once convicted. A man who should have spent the last thirty years in jail. The next thirty as well, if there’s any justice. They’ve watched him before. Tailed him for months. Never gave anything away. Even managed to convince a couple of senior officers that he wasn’t involved in crime. On the periphery, maybe, but not directly involved. A victim of vicious gossip. Poor little Frank. Now he’s be
en retired. That’s the strangest part of all. A guy like Frank being retired. Rare, and very dangerous.
People like Frank don’t retire. They work until they drop. Being retired makes them targets with no protection. He’ll be feeling awfully vulnerable right about now. There are issues with this rumour, though. The source, for one. Doesn’t matter how drunk and emotional Jamieson was–no way he would spill his guts to a barmaid. No matter how sexy and available she was. Kenny’s spinning a yarn on the source. Probably found out by eavesdropping. Or from someone he doesn’t want to admit knowing. So he’s lying about the source, big deal. As long as the source is good, it doesn’t matter. Fisher also doesn’t like the way Kenny refers to Jamieson. Always by his surname. Maybe he’s just falling into the pattern that Fisher himself created. He calls Jamieson by his surname because he doesn’t know the man. Kenny should know him better than that. He’s his driver, for Christ’s sake. He works with him practically every day. Surely he should be calling him Peter by now. Using the surname feels like he’s talking about someone he barely knows. How close is Kenny to Jamieson exactly?
‘So you’re saying he was pushed out?’ Put a little pressure on, but not much. Time to back off. This is good info. Be gentle with the questions and tell him he’s done well.
‘I guess,’ Kenny’s saying. Nervous again. ‘I doubt he wanted to go. He’s a good guy. Well, not a good guy. He’s a criminal, so he’s a bad guy. But he’s a nice man. Well…’
‘Okay, Kenny,’ Fisher’s saying. He doesn’t have the patience to sit and listen to yet another criminal pretend he isn’t one. Or pretend that he’s the only nice guy in his industry. They all say it. Some of them even believe it. ‘This is better. I’m thinking you and I could work together after all. I won’t forget that you helped us with this. There is one other thing. If Frank’s been pushed out, they must have someone ready to step in and replace him. Do you know who that is?’ Not mentioning what job they’ll be stepping into. Not mentioning that Frank was a hitman, because that would mean Kenny admitting that he knew Frank was a murderer. He won’t admit that. Fisher won’t make him.
Kenny’s blinking more than he should. He forgot that they don’t know about Calum. They really should know. He’s not going to tell them. Not yet, anyway. Keep that one back for later use. Maybe never. Kenny never took Frank on a job. Not once. Old Frank was always nice and polite, but he never needed him. Calum did. Just that once, but still. He was an accessory. He drove Calum to the flats. Two men died in those flats. They call it murder-suicide, but Kenny knows better. That was Calum’s work. Had to be. Double murder. And he literally drove him to it.
‘I don’t know,’ Kenny’s saying. ‘Maybe they do, but I haven’t heard. It wouldn’t be Jamieson anyway. It would be Young. He seems to handle that sort of thing. Hiring and firing.’
‘Even to replace someone as important as Frank MacLeod?’
Kenny’s shrugging. ‘I guess. I don’t know. He handles that sort of thing is all I know. Jamieson has the final say, obviously, but it’s usually Young that does all the donkeywork. That’s all I know.’
Oh no, it isn’t, Fisher’s thinking. That’s all you’re willing to say now, but you know plenty more. Kenny will be holding things back. You can’t know about someone as important as Frank without knowing a lot more about the rest of them. If he’s smart, he’ll be holding back the best information he has. Dribble it out over the course of years. He’ll hold back anything that incriminates himself. Anything that embarrasses him. Anything that might jeopardize either his place within the Jamieson organization or this safety net he’s trying to create. That’s enough for now. Frank MacLeod. Fisher’s sitting back in his chair, thinking about that man. How best to use this information. Kenny’s still there. Still looking cold and nervous. Waiting to be told that this meeting is over.
‘This is the sort of thing I need to know,’ Fisher’s telling him. ‘You get anything more like this and you contact me. You still have the number I gave you?’
‘I have it.’
‘Okay. Thanks for coming,’ Fisher’s saying. ‘You go first.’
He left with a last grumpy look at the hot cup of tea. Fisher’s still clasping it. Considering. The best scenario would be to arrest Frank MacLeod. Can’t do that. Nothing to arrest him for. He’s a killer, but a good one. Good enough not to leave proof lying around. What will Frank do? Pushed out of one organization, he might run to another. There’ll be a few that he’s made enemies of over the years. Can’t last as long as Frank without making enemies. There will be someone, though. Someone will hire him. Someone looking for a credible name to have around them. Get an elder statesman on board. Another young gun with ambition. The kind of person Jamieson was when he hired Frank. He’ll go to them for safety. Frank needs protection. If he’s being forced out, then something must have happened. Something unforgivable. You don’t retire Frank MacLeod because you think he might be slowing down. He must have botched something. Or screwed someone over. More likely botched. He was too safe where he was to rock the boat. Frank’s essentially been sacked for incompetence.
Washing the cup at the kitchen sink. Fisher’s going straight home from here. He has a nice little house, but he finds it boring. Everything’s boring except work. There’s nothing wrong with loving your work to the exclusion of other things. Not in Fisher’s mind. That doesn’t make you some sad-sack cliché, does it? What else could compare to this? Frank MacLeod, out on his arse. Vulnerable and unprotected. Looking around for some sort of shield. He must know that he’s just become everyone’s number-one target. Everyone with a reason to hate him now has a chance to kill him. They’ll try too, when they find out Jamieson’s ditched him. That’s why Frank will move fast. One person already knows that he’s vulnerable. Jamieson knows. Jamieson’s tough, ruthless. Charming, so they say, but ruthless. He’ll be front of the queue to get rid of Frank. Would be a mug if he wasn’t. Frank knows more about Jamieson’s manoeuvres than almost anyone else. Jamieson will need to keep Frank’s mouth shut. Which is why Fisher knows he has to move fast, too.
34
A phone call. Not from Young, but Jamieson himself. That’s unusual. He doesn’t sound like himself. He always tries to be cheery. Always tries to seem like he’s your pal. Not this time.
‘Calum, it’s Peter. I want you to come round to the club. Come straight up to my office.’
‘Okay,’ Calum’s saying. Doesn’t need to say anything more than that. Sounds like another job. A late call usually is. Sounds like something unusual. For a job, Young would call. It’s organized to make sure that it’s always Young. Consistency is important.
‘Come round right away,’ Jamieson’s saying. The line’s dead. It’s been part of the Jamieson ploy to sound as chummy as possible towards Calum. Always light and breezy. Always complimentary. The tone this time was formal. Businesslike. It didn’t sound like him.
Calum’s put the phone down. He’s pacing around the flat, getting a coat from the wardrobe, making sure he has nothing identifying on him. This seems like something to be worried about. He might have to go straight to a job. Car keys, and out the door. Driving to the club. Pointless to speculate. Don’t even think about what this might be. You get there and you find out. Why bother yourself with speculation? He doesn’t like driving in the dark. Occupy yourself with the effort of the journey. Young’s not involved. Why not? Maybe he is. Maybe he’ll be there; he just didn’t make the call. Why did Jamieson sound so down? It has to be Frank. It can only be about Frank. Bad news about Frank means bad news for Calum. Stop speculating, for God’s sake. Just find somewhere to park. That’s work enough round here. Up and down the street twice, eventually finding somewhere that’ll serve. A short walk in the cold to the club.
It is cold, too. Not that you’d know it, looking at some of the people outside the club this evening. Young women–some too young–in short skirts, some too short. Summer wear, it seems to Calum. They’re laughing and chatting among themselves, wait
ing to go in. There’s something resembling a line outside the club. Young men and young women, trying to impress each other. Never used to be this way. Used to be struggling, this club. Jamieson turned it around. Made it fashionable, which in turn made it profitable.
It’s not a great place to have your office, Calum’s reflecting, as he walks past the twenty or so people on the pavement. Jamieson’s big enough to use somewhere quieter, somewhere innocuous. It’s sentiment, as much as anything else. The club was the first big legit business he got his hands on. It made sense to use it as his office then. He made a success of the club too, proved that he could be a legit businessman. That always means a lot to guys in the industry. They like to show that they can cut it in the legit world, too. Now he’s building an empire, and it’s surely past time to leave the club behind. But he doesn’t. It’s his comfort zone.
A few people are looking at Calum now. He has his head down, trying to be ignored. He’s walked past the crowd and turned towards the door. Some people think he’s cutting the line. The bouncers are looking at him, probably ready to turn him away. One of them recognizes him. Puts a hand out to stop his mate from saying anything. They step aside, let him through. No words spoken. They have their instructions. They know who’s here to party and who’s here to see the boss.
Inside. Into the thumping music and body heat. People call this fun, you know. Squeezing up against random strangers, half-deaf and mostly drunk. The club to his right, the stairs in front of him. Four people sitting on the stairs. A young woman crying, being comforted by a friend. A young couple a few steps further up, halfway down each other’s throats and slurping. Calum’s stepping past them. Careful not to bump into anyone. Careful not to draw attention. Careful not to trip up on these treacherous steps. None of the four on the stairs pay him any notice, and he’s pushing open the door to the snooker room now.
How a Gunman Says Goodbye Page 17