How a Gunman Says Goodbye

by Malcolm Mackay

  ‘So you have some friends that are more involved in that sort of life?’

  ‘Some, sure.’

  ‘What about your friend Calum?’

  Here it is. This is the moment he’s been waiting for. Has to play it carefully. Don’t lay it on thick. Start by not saying anything at all. Look as though you regret this turn in the conversation. Look as though you don’t want to talk about Calum. Now say something. ‘I don’t want to get him into any trouble,’ he’s saying.

  She’s managed to look grave. ‘Is he one of the friends you were talking about?’ she’s asking.

  ‘Listen,’ he’s saying, ‘Calum’s a good guy. I like him. We’re not terribly close, but we get on well. I know he’s been involved in some stuff.’ A thoughtful pause. ‘I don’t want to go into detail. I just know that he’s been involved in some heavier stuff than I think is decent. That doesn’t make him a bad guy, though. He’s always been a good friend to me.’

  ‘Serious stuff? What’s that?’

  ‘Look, I’ve said too much. I don’t want it getting back to him that I’ve said stuff about him behind his back.’ That sounds genuine. It is. ‘He’s a friend. I’m not going to gossip about him. I like him, I just wouldn’t do the things he does for a living. I’d be way too scared of getting caught. That’s all I’ll say.’ Another pause. Let her think about all that for a few seconds. ‘Let’s not talk about him, huh? Let’s enjoy this lunch. We need to give ourselves a chance here.’

  She didn’t mention Calum again. She actually didn’t say an awful lot. At one point she even seemed a little upset. George struggled through the next half-hour. It’s a strange thing. He’s done some rough stuff in his work. Beaten up people who didn’t deserve it. Good people, too. He didn’t feel as sorry for them as he does for Anna right now. They’re walking out; she has her coat. Into the car and driving back to her flat. Silent, most of the way.

  ‘Well, that was nice,’ she’s saying. They’re outside the flat again. Saying it to be polite. It wasn’t nice. ‘You have my number. You can call me if you’d like.’ Saying it with no enthusiasm. Like she already knows he never will.

  ‘I will,’ he’s saying. He won’t. ‘I enjoyed that.’ He didn’t. She’s smiling and going inside. He’s back in the car. Hated every minute of that ordeal. Not because of her, but because of what he was doing. Hating John Young right now. Hating himself.

  36

  Picking up a car from his brother’s garage. William’s always happy to see him. Always looking out for his little brother, without going into unnecessary details. He knows enough about what Calum does to avoid awkward questions.

  ‘I might need it for a while. Could even be weeks.’

  William’s nodding. ‘I’ve got something you can use. Not a punter’s car, one I bought. Got it cheap. Bit of a con job really, the guy was desperate to sell, so I sort of ripped him off.’

  ‘Sort of?’

  ‘He needed the cash quick,’ William’s shrugging. ‘It’s pretty manky. I’ll need to tart her up before I sell her on.’ He’s leading Calum into his office at the back of the garage. ‘I’ll make good money from her, though.’ Closing the door behind them. ‘What sort of job leaves you needing a car that long?’ he’s asking. The concerned brother. Genuine concern.

  ‘Nothing that’s actually illegal,’ Calum’s saying. ‘Don’t worry, it won’t get picked up.’

  ‘It’s not the car I’m worried about,’ William’s saying, handing over the keys.

  He didn’t ask about the hands this time. Calum went a while without seeing his mother or brother after the Davidson incident. Letting the wounds heal. The dust settle. Then he went round to his mother’s for Sunday dinner. He spun her a yarn about helping a friend with some printing. Same yarn that served so poorly with Emma. Consistency is important. His mother bought it. Never one to ask questions she might not enjoy the answer to. William was there, too. He wasn’t taken in, not for a second. He didn’t ask how it happened, he knows better, but he checked on Calum a few times. William knows the business. He’s on the outer fringes, his business making a little extra money now and then by helping out connected people. Providing cars, respraying and tagging. William probably knows Shug, has a rough idea of what’s going on. He wants his little brother out of it, mostly for their mother’s sake. Too late for that. Calum’s in too deep. William wants his brother safe, but he can’t stop helping him. Giving him vehicles when he needs them, no matter the risk. Never charging a penny. Always the brother.

  Sitting outside an old man’s house in a car that smells dubious. Spying on one of the few people you respect. The tedium of the watch. Sitting watching a front door that doesn’t open. Halfway along the street. Far enough not to stand out. Far enough that there’s minimal risk of Frank spotting Calum. He should know he’s being watched. An old hand like Frank, he should guess he has a tail. Obvious that a guy like Jamieson will take every precaution. Obvious that the world needs to know what Frank does next. Which, right now, doesn’t seem like much. Calum can only guess that he’s in there. What he knows of Frank’s routine says he’s in there. Might not come out all day. Certainly doesn’t need to go to the club any more. He should; he ought to make a point of going round regularly. Putting a little pressure back onto Jamieson. Make himself useful in any way. It might not be what Frank wants to do, but it’s a form of protection. You go round, you do the advisory job you’ve been offered. You rebuild trust.

  Frank won’t do that. Not his mindset. Calum’s seen it in a few of the older ones. They consider themselves to be apart from the rest of the industry. The mindset of experience. You spend decades as a gunman, which few do, and you think of the world from a different angle. It’s all about secrecy and self-preservation. A lifetime of hiding the things you do. It changes you. It must have changed Frank, too. He’ll consider anything that draws him into the open to be counter-intuitive, threatening even. A friend’s offer to keep him earning past his sell-by date will be spurned. He’s a gunman, and that’s all he’ll ever be. You spend so long teaching yourself to be that, you simply can’t become any other kind of person. You become so tied to your work that it dominates your life. Destroys it.

  How long does it take? Calum’s thinking. Hardly watching the house now. Nothing to watch. How long before he himself won’t be able to live any other kind of life? He’s been involved in the business for more than ten years now. Been a gunman and nothing else for eight or nine years. Started young and found he liked the life. Few jobs, decent money, peace and quiet. The quiet life of the freelancer. Now he’s been drawn into an organization. Working whenever he’s told to work. Unable to walk from things he doesn’t like. Won’t be long before he’s thinking like the old men. A gunman and nothing else. Any other offer of work an insult. Any other life unthinkable. Just the thought of being reduced to an adviser will sicken Frank. His role as a gunman should be respected. People should recognize that it’s a speciality, that the skills can’t be transferred elsewhere. People should recognize his value. Offering him a role that’s often used as a cover is humiliating to him. That’s why he’ll say no. That’s why this has to end badly. Calum can’t see any other way.

  In the afternoon, the door opens. An old man, huddled up in a puffy-looking jacket, steps out. Pulls the door shut behind him. Locks it. Moves off down the front path to the gate. It’s Frank all right, but he looks so shrivelled. You see him at work and he seems different. Young for his age. Wrinkled, sure, but a man of obvious strength. Now he’s shuffling and small. There’s a slight limp from the hip replacement. Perhaps made worse from falling on the floor outside Scott’s flat. He looks to all the world like a little old man. Which is how he wants the rest of the world to see him. Weak and vulnerable. A kindly gent with a gleam in his eye, who would do no harm to anyone. Calum gets it. He gets that you create a different image for people outside the business. A gunman never has to look tough. You don’t have to look tough when you’re doing a job. The gun looks tough enoug
h for both of you.

  Thank God he isn’t coming this way. Frank’s gone in the other direction, as Calum assumed he would when he parked here. He’ll go to the pub. He’ll have a pint. He’ll come home. Does it every day, apparently. Every day on his own. Seems rather sad to Calum. He’d rather stay in the house. The only thing lonelier than being alone is being alone with lots of other people. Frank’s walking along the street. It’s raining and it’s cold, but he’s going through his routine. Calum’s watching him get out of sight. Let him get round the corner. Give him a couple of minutes. Starting the car now. Moving along the street to the corner, he can see Frank well ahead of him. Calum’s turning right, to go the long way round. He’ll still get to the pub first. Watch Frank go in, watch him come out. Get back to the house ahead of him. It’s boring. Much as he hates to admit it, it’s insulting too. If Jamieson thinks Calum’s so talented, why the hell is he doing a garbage job like this?

  Sitting, watching Frank go in. Sitting, watching the sad sacks go in and out of the pub after Frank. Losers, every single one of them. Middle of a weekday and they’re in a dingy bar. They look like they’ve seen the end of the world. They’ll consider Frank to be one of them. If only they knew. Takes Frank more than half an hour to drink whatever he drinks. Then he’s out the front door. Heading back the way he came. Hood pulled up over his head. He looks so small. Calum never noticed that before.

  Starting the car when there’s a safe distance. Going quickly back, the long way round. Back to the house. It must be a boring life for Frank. Probably only made bearable by the thrill of the job. The secret life now lost. Here he comes. Limping a little more than he was when he first left the house. He wasn’t ready to go back to work. Calum can see it now. Jamieson should have realized. A man still limping from an operation is no gunman.

  Frank’s back in his house. It’s got quickly dark outside. His living-room light is on. There’s a skill to following someone. There’s also a skill to being followed. Frank may have guessed that he’s being tailed. Might even have spotted Calum. But he keeps playing the part. Doing all he can to prove what a good employee he is. All the time he could be in touch with another organization. If he knows he’s being followed, then he knows his phone records are being checked. He’s old, but he still knows the current tricks. He has to. All good pros do. He could be sitting in there plotting anything. Making a mug of Jamieson. Calum, too. Or he could be sitting in there, oblivious. That would be an indictment. A man of his experience, his knowledge, unaware of what’s happening around him. Unforgivable. It’s not a mistake he would have made in the past. Not when he was sharp. This isn’t the past. It’s dark now. Evening. Calum’s done his work for the day. He’s driving home.

  37

  He’s spent most of the day looking over old case notes. Some date back to the Seventies. Some of them name Frank MacLeod. Some hint at his then-employer’s involvement. None comes up with enough evidence for a charge. Not even close. Even now, decades later, it’s obvious that Frank MacLeod was guilty. Not in all of them. Some of them it’s hard to tell. Some of them he’s probably innocent. Not as if he was the only murderer in town. There are even a few cases where people have clearly thrown Frank’s name in there with no good reason. They were desperate. They had a victim and they wanted to convict Frank of murder. Unfortunately there was a big gap between those two facts, where the evidence should be.

  Always the same two. Two cops who never worked together. One had retired before the other became a detective. Both with a bee in their bonnet about Frank MacLeod. Determined that they would be the one to nail him. The older one retired twenty years ago: Richard Whyte. Fisher remembers the younger of them. He was still around when Fisher started out. Guy called Douglas Chalmers. Very old-school. Good cop, though he never got close to Frank, either.

  Fisher’s at his desk, a slip of paper in front of him. Is he becoming those two old cops, or is he betraying them? Maybe the latter. They would definitely think so, but times have changed. Frank isn’t the big fish he once was. Not if he’s on the outside. Besides, catching him as a contact is a catch of sorts. Not the lifetime stretch he deserves, sure. That would be the ideal, but it won’t happen. Frank was always too good for that. Then he got old, like everyone else. Had his hip replaced. Obviously isn’t fit enough for it any more. Now he stops being the big catch and becomes the bait. He could lead to Jamieson. To all of Jamieson’s people. That would be worth a guarantee of safety. Not one he truly deserves. How many people has he killed? He should be inside. It could still happen. Tell Frank he gets safety for info. When you have the info, arrest him anyway. Then forget about ever getting another contact in the business. Shit, it always has to be this bloody awkward. People like Frank MacLeod can never give you an easy ride.

  He has the number on a piece of paper in front of him, daring himself to throw it in the bin. Go for the short-term prize of MacLeod himself. Tail him. Wait for him to slip up, now that he has no protection. Then get him in the dock. Wait for him to slip up–that’s a laugh. Fisher’s running his hand over the pile of case notes again. Not a single mistake in there. Not one. No reason why Frank should slip up now. Less reason, in fact. No safety net means more precautions. Less work. A man like Frank MacLeod will adapt to suit his conditions. So the hope of an arrest dwindles. The hope of a contact remains. Talk to him. Offer an olive branch. Give him the only protection that can guarantee a prison-free retirement. Still might not take it. Free of prison, but an enemy for those he informs on. It would still be a life on the run. Hiding until death.

  He’s picking up the phone and dialling. Only one way to find out how this will go. It’s ringing. Still ringing. No answering service. Fisher’s hanging up. So either Frank isn’t at home or he’s not answering his phone. Might be better to go round there, but that’s not how you cultivate a contact. Turning up on their doorstep scares the crap out of them. Fisher knows that. Seen it happen before. You turn up and put that sort of pressure on and they run a mile. First thing they do is look to their boss for protection. If, like Frank, they don’t have a boss, then they go to ground. You’ve lost them forever as a contact. Subtle manoeuvres. Like trying to get a shy girl to go out with you. Slow and steady, nothing to frighten them away. Frank MacLeod isn’t like other contacts, though. Nobody else has his experience. Experience of the business, the people in it, its relationship with the police. He must know so much. He isn’t going to be frightened by the same things that normal people are.

  If he’s frightened at all. Sitting here in an office in the police station, dark outside, making assumptions. Any other gunman would be nervous, surely. Out of one organization, looking around for somewhere to go. Old Frank might be different. Old Frank might already have a plan. He might already have been through this sort of thing before. Knows exactly what to do. Already contacted an organization that he knows will take him. A bigger one than Jamieson’s. Sell your soul to another ageing scumbag like Alex MacArthur. Give him everything you know about Jamieson. Wouldn’t be long before Jamieson’s world fell apart around him. Frank’s biggest threat would be gone, his safety almost assured. Don’t kid yourself that there’s loyalty amongst these people. They’re all as fickle as the wind. They go where the money is. They go where they’ll be safe from the consequences of their own actions. Greedy cowards, by and large. Just because he’s old and smart, that doesn’t make him any different.

  Dialling the number a second time. He’s let twenty minutes pass. Maybe Frank’s back home. Or maybe he ignores strange numbers first time round, as a matter of routine. Perhaps he’ll answer this time. It’s ringing, again. Fisher hasn’t thought about what he’ll say. No point. These people can be very unpredictable. The only thing you can consider is your tone. Polite, but not friendly. You’re not here to make a friend. Firm, but not aggressive. They have to know you’re in charge, but they also have to know they’re safe with you.

  ‘Hello?’ A wary voice. Clearly not young, but not feeble-sounding, either.
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  ‘Hello, is this Frank MacLeod?’

  The slightest pause. ‘It is. How may I help you?’ If not old, certainly old-fashioned. Much too polite to be a modern gangland figure.

  ‘My name’s Michael Fisher. Do you know who I am?’

  Another pause. This one longer. ‘I do.’

  Fisher’s allowing Frank that little moment of silence. Let him gather his thoughts, question what this call means. Let him compose himself, so that he doesn’t feel he’s being jumped.

  ‘Then you probably have a fair idea why I’m calling.’ Matter-of-fact tone. Two guys who’ve been around the block, talking honestly to one another.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me why,’ Frank’s saying. Sounds a little like defiance. Probably a default setting. A cop calls you up, and you immediately get all defensive.

  Fair enough, Fisher should have seen that coming. Frank might be smart, but he’s had forty years of conditioning. At a time like this, his instincts will be taking over.

  ‘I know you probably don’t want to talk to me, Frank, but I have a few things I think you should hear. You’re on the outside now. I know it; so do you, so does everyone. It’s common knowledge by now.’ That’s a little white lie, but it’ll come true soon enough. ‘I know where that leaves you. I want to make you an offer.’ Pause, leave it hanging. Wait and see what reaction you get. For an uncomfortably long time, nothing.

  He’s thinking about it, which is a start. There are plenty of people who would have told him where to stick his offer, without even stopping to hear what it is. Not old Frank. He has more sense than that. How much more remains to be seen. He’s still not speaking.