‘I’m not going to demand anything of you right now,’ Fisher’s saying. ‘I think a face-to-face would be a good thing. We’ll both be better able to judge how this might go.’
There’s a sigh on the other end. Sounds like exasperation, not disgust. ‘I doubt it would go very well for either of us,’ Frank’s saying.
Time to put some cards on the table. ‘Maybe not,’ Fisher’s saying. ‘On the other hand, I can offer you something you won’t get anywhere else. You’re on the outside now. You’ll become a target, no matter what you do. You know how these things work. I can offer you safety. Hide you; protect you–whatever’s needed. I can keep you out of jail. I’m not asking for yes or no right now. But let’s meet.’
Another pause. ‘I have your number now,’ Frank’s saying quietly. ‘Let me think about it. Call you back.’
It went better than expected. It wasn’t no. It was a probably not–but that’s something he can work on. Frank will call him back. Could take a while, but if he can get a meeting, then Fisher would be halfway there. Once a person commits to meeting, it usually means they’ve already made up their mind. There’s a lot of risk in a meeting, so it’s a commitment in itself.
There’s nobody else in the office now. Couple of the guys from the nightshift have come and gone. God knows where to, probably the canteen. He doesn’t care. For once, Fisher’s not in the mood to chastise. This is his one chance. A chance to crack the Scott killing, maybe the Winter killing, too. Maybe a number of others. A chance to bring down Peter Jamieson. A chance to do something that would actually matter. So little of what he does matters any more. You round up some moron with a gun who thinks he’s a gangster, and you chuck him in jail for ten years. Within a fortnight three other morons have taken his place. You arrest the attention-seekers, the ones who think they’re celebrities and live accordingly. All the while, the people who matter stay hidden away. Safe. Then you get the chance. The once-in-a-decade opportunity to bring down an entire organization that matters. This might just be it.
38
His alarm goes off at half past seven. He always gets up at half past seven on a weekday, eight at weekends. It occurs to him now that he could ignore it. It occurs that he should have been ignoring it all his adult life. Never had a proper job. A job making something, contributing something. He’s only ever been a destroyer. Destroyers don’t need to get out of bed early. But he will. He’s spent so long forming the habit, it’s become impossible to break. When you live an unpredictable life, you need to form some sort of routine. It’s comforting to Frank. You don’t control your work. Your work controls the kind of life you’re able to live. So you build routines, and you stick to them.
He’s out of bed, into the shower, dressed, downstairs for breakfast. Now he’s thinking about his situation. Where does he stand? All alone, it seems. He can’t think of another organization he would want to go and work for. Plenty that would take him, there’s no doubt. He could find work if he needed it. And protection, which he does need. People would give it, but they would want so much in return. He would have to deliver them Jamieson, and all his people. They would only take Frank because of what he knows. They would dismiss his skills as those of an old man, as Jamieson has. It wouldn’t be progress. He doesn’t want to give them Jamieson.
He’s making a second cup of coffee. A little less milk in it this time. Looking round his house. Looking at his lifetime’s accumulations. Nothing. At least, nothing that he couldn’t live without. No family at all. No friends that he couldn’t leave behind. A lifetime of gaining nothing. It didn’t feel like that at the time, obviously, but you can see it on reflection. All that time, all that work. In the end you have nothing.
He’s going to the shop. It’s an excuse to get out of the house, nothing more. Buy a few things that he probably doesn’t need. A loaf of bread that’ll go green and be thrown out. A carton of milk that he’ll use half of. He’ll buy a newspaper and read maybe three pages of it. He has his coat on, and he’s out into the street. A casual look around–nobody there he doesn’t recognize. After a job he’s usually very careful to check. You’re on the lookout for reprisals, no matter who the target was. If it was someone in an organization, then there could be a professional after you. Harder to spot a pro, but they’re less likely to come after you anyway. Organizations don’t go after gunmen; they go after the person who hired them. Different when it’s a smaller target. Some guy trying to get rich on his own, steps on toes. Not connected to an organization, just trying to make money for him and his family. You can never predict the reaction of a family to a hit. People get emotional, pledge vengeance.
He doesn’t think of the Scott job as a job at all. It wasn’t his kill, in the end. Calum was the guy who did the job, not Frank. They’re Calum’s victims, another two notches for him. Hard to know how to feel about it. It’s strange that he’s still thinking about them. Scott and McClure. He’s usually stopped thinking about a target this long after a job. You think about nothing else in the build-up, and then you do the job. The second it’s finished and you’re clear of the location, your life goes back to the old routine. You think and do the things that you usually do, and the victim is no more than a name in the newspaper. It sounds cold, he realizes, but you have to have that detachment. Can’t spend your life thinking about all the jobs you’ve done, it’s not a sensible way to live. As he’s walking along the street, heading for the corner shop, he’s thinking about Scott and McClure again. Two people he didn’t kill. Should have. Didn’t. They could be his last ever targets.
He’s in the shop. Loading a few things into a basket, hardly even looking at them. He has to do something. He suddenly knows that he has to do something. He can’t live this life. He can be the sad old man when he has work to keep him thrilled, but not without it. Without it, he really is just a wreck, waiting for the end. He’s placing his basket on the counter; the woman behind the counter is adding it up. He sees her three or four times a week, but he has no idea what her name is. She must be in her mid-thirties, maybe a bit older. She looks a little worn, but she’s not wearing a wedding ring. Twenty-something years his junior, but he’s always thought of himself as a young man. In the past he would never have thought of asking her out. Too close to home. If he’s not working any more, then why not? Because he’s built the image of the sad old man–that’s why not. This is the cost of the life you’ve led.
A single bag of shopping; walking back along the street. He knows what he’s going to do. A mildly attractive woman in a shop, and he knows. If he’s ever going to have the freedom to have that life, to be able to ask, then it needs to be away from here. It needs to be a life outside the business. Only one organization can make that happen. He has to call Fisher. It feels like a betrayal, but why should it? Jamieson pushed him out, not the other way round. Peter Jamieson threw him overboard, and now he has to find any life raft he can. He keeps telling himself that it’s not a betrayal. He hasn’t convinced himself yet, but he’ll keep saying it. Into the house; the few items of shopping put away. Over to the phone. Going through the menu, finding the last number that called. Fisher’s office number. Everyone in the business knows Fisher. They know he specializes in anti-organized crime. Tough. Respectable. A man they hate because they fear him.
Pressing Dial and listening to it ring. He might not be there. Will Frank have the guts to call him a second time? Unlikely. He knows how hard this is.
‘Hello.’ Enthusiastic, expectant. Sounds like Fisher was sitting by the phone, waiting for the call. Nice to feel important, even if it is the police.
‘Mr Fisher. It’s Frank MacLeod. I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday.’
‘Good,’ Fisher’s saying. Now he’s waiting for the follow-up, but nothing’s coming.
Frank can’t quite bring himself to say it. He’s already made the decision, but until he says it, he isn’t a traitor. Isn’t the worst of the worst. He’s told himself that a lot of other people have done it,
but that doesn’t help. Just means there’s a lot of other traitors. Forty years of being told that it’s the worst thing you can do is hard to overcome.
‘I think we should meet,’ he’s saying at last. It sounds like he’s forcing the words out, as if he wants rid of them. ‘Soon, I think,’ he’s adding. It’s hard to hide the nerves.
‘I think soon would be best,’ Fisher’s saying. Good to get the agreement in, make it seem like they’re on the same wavelength. ‘Do you have any preference for where?’
Frank’s thinking. Where the hell do you do this sort of thing? Where would be safe? Nowhere is totally safe, that’s the truth of it. The location matters less than the cop probably realizes. If you’re being watched, then anywhere is deadly. If you’re not, then most places are safe enough.
‘There’s a house we can use,’ Fisher’s saying, impatient at the delay. ‘Or I can come round to you, if that would make you feel safer. The choice is yours.’
He certainly won’t have the cop round to his house. That’s a dumb suggestion, Fisher should realize that. Meeting in public would be fine if he could be sure they wouldn’t be spotted. ‘I think this house of yours would be the best option. What’s the address?’
It’s not too late to back out. Go to Jamieson; tell him you’ve been contacted by Fisher. Tell him you have the address of Fisher’s meeting house for contacts. Jamieson can have it watched; see what he learns from that. It might just prove that Frank’s not useless, that he can still contribute to the organization. Nah, that’s not how they would see it. They’ve got it into their heads that he’s a decrepit old fart, with nothing to offer. If he went and told them about this call, they would view it with suspicion. They now see Frank as a suspicious character. He’s seen it happening to others, he knows it’s happening to him. Still not too late to walk away from this.
They set the meeting for tomorrow. Mid-morning. Quite possible to stay away. He’s not truly committed until he turns up. Not a traitor until he goes through the door. All this because of Tommy-bloody-Scott. What a laugh! Scott’s finally important, but only because he’s dead.
39
Wasn’t an easy place to find. Hidden away on a side street, the kind of little dump she expected. Calum had told her it was a small place, but that his brother manages to make an okay living from it. There are a number of cars parked along the street in front of the entrance, enough room left to drive cars in and out of the building. She can see someone inside, standing looking at a car that’s up on a ramp. He looks too young to be William. It would help if she knew what William looked like. She’s approaching the mechanic. He’s stopped staring at the car for long enough to glance her way.
‘Can I help you, love?’ he’s asking.
‘I’m looking for William MacLean,’ she’s saying. No detail. Not to anyone else. Emma knows she’ll have to be careful, even with her boyfriend’s brother.
‘Nah, he’s busy, can I help?’
‘No, it has to be William. Is he here?’
With a sigh the mechanic’s disappeared to the rear of the garage. Into the office at the back. There’s a window that looks down at the garage, and she can see the back of someone’s head inside. Must be him. What an introduction this is going to be! Calum always speaks warmly of his brother, which is something. The mechanic’s coming back.
‘You can go through,’ he’s saying, nodding towards the office.
Up a couple of wooden steps and into William’s company. He’s sitting at a small desk, a computer in front of him. It’s a cramped, narrow little place. He’s nodding hello, looking up at her enquiringly. He looks a little nervous. Worried that she’s a customer with a complaint. Worse than that: a lawyer for a customer with a complaint. You can see the similarity with Calum. It’s in the mouth and chin, especially. William’s perhaps a little more handsome. Not noticeably older. Lacks the sharp expression that Calum always has.
‘You’re looking for me?’ William’s saying, trying to sound friendly. He’s checking that his hand’s clean before he offers it to shake. Some people can be sniffy about a little speck of engine oil.
‘You’re William MacLean?’
‘I am.’
‘Calum’s brother?’
That got a reaction. A flash of the sharp look. The polite smile falling away. It’s a look that demands that she is careful what she says next. He might not like what his brother does, but Calum’s still his brother.
‘I am,’ he’s saying gruffly. His hand had gone out a little, but it’s being withdrawn.
‘My name’s Emma. I’m Calum’s girlfriend.’
Okay, that got a reaction too. William’s sitting back in his chair, looking at her. He looks suspicious. This is clearly news to him.
‘I just wanted to clear something up with you,’ Emma’s saying. Be quick. Don’t let the conversation become about the relationship. ‘You remember a week ago. In the middle of the night.’
‘Uh,’ he’s saying. She’s stopped, waiting for a response. He doesn’t know where this is going. Not somewhere good, he can guess. These aren’t the things a brother’s girlfriend should be saying. ‘Go on,’ he’s saying.
‘You called Calum, right?’
He’s pausing. ‘Er, yeah, I called him,’ he’s nodding, a little uncertain. Piecing it together. Calum’s used him as an alibi. The girl’s got suspicious, maybe thinks Calum’s playing away. ‘That’s right, I did.’
He doesn’t look certain at all. Could be because he was drunk on the night. Could be because he’s lying. Seems more likely the latter. She doesn’t trust him.
‘You’re sure you definitely called him? Do you remember why you called him?’
Now there’s a hard look on his face. One that isn’t going to go away in a hurry. She’s asking awkward questions, and none too politely. ‘I said I called him, didn’t I? What exactly is your problem with this anyway, Emma?’ Saying her name like an insult.
‘I didn’t say I had a problem, I just want to know.’ She’s getting defensive. Getting a little aggressive. It’s not helping. ‘I’m just not sure you’re being honest with me.’
Mistake.
‘You’re calling me a liar?’ He’s raising his voice now. ‘You’re saying I didn’t call him. You’re calling Calum a liar too, is that it? Saying my wee brother’s lying to you. You sure you’re his girlfriend?’
This is going badly wrong. She needs to bail out. ‘Listen, I just want to know.’
‘Yeah, well, why in the hell are you asking me? Ask Calum. If you don’t trust his answer, you shouldn’t be going out with him. If you even are. Jesus, you turn up here giving me grief when I’ve never fucking heard of you. Some girlfriend, when he’s never even told me about you.’ Shouting now. Getting up and holding open the door to the office for her to leave.
He’s watching her walk out of the garage. Just the kind of girl Calum would go for. Smart and trouble. Getting his phone from his pocket. Screen’s filthy. One day he’ll get round to cleaning it. Ringing Calum. Nothing. Going through to voicemail. Telling his brother that he just had a visit from a woman claiming to be his girlfriend. Asking questions about some night a week ago. Telling Calum that of course he backed him up, but if she is his girlfriend, then he might want to be careful. Seems cute, but terrifying. Not the sort of girlfriend Calum should have. Hanging up. What’s he supposed to do? William always tries to help his brother, but he knows it’s not right. He wants Calum safe. Maybe a tough little nut of a girlfriend would be just the thing to force Calum to change his life. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s not possible now. William knows how the industry works. Once you’re in, it’s mighty hard to get out.
Emma has another visit to make. Not likely to go much better than the last one, but she might get more info. This one can’t bullshit his way out of it. Up the stairs to his flat and knocking on the door. It takes twenty seconds or so for him to answer. He looks rough, hung-over maybe. George is glaring back at her. Doesn’t look shocked, just disappointed. He
’s running a hand through his curly hair. He’s wishing she had enough sense to take the message. Worst thing she could do is ask questions.
‘Can I come in?’ she’s asking.
‘I suppose you’d better.’ He’s stepping aside to let her past. See, this is why he doesn’t do relationships. The only woman he’d ever get serious with would be one with as many secrets as he has. Might be possible for him. No such woman in the whole city for Calum. He’s closing the door behind her and following her into the living room.
‘I know why you took Anna out for lunch,’ she’s saying, standing in the middle of the floor.
‘That right?’
‘Yeah. You took her out so that you could drop hints about Calum. Because you don’t have the balls to tell me to my face. Well, I’m right here. Why don’t you tell me now?’
What’s the answer to that? Shit, it’s like people gang up to make life more difficult than it needs to be. ‘What are you doing?’ he’s asking. Seriously, and with a little bit of anger in his voice. He can’t help it. ‘You’re not this stupid. The hell are you doing, coming round here asking things like that? You know. You just said you know.’
‘I know all right,’ she’s nodding, and there are tears in her eyes. That’s shut George up. ‘I know that he went off in the middle of the night a week ago. I know that he says he went to pick up his brother, but he didn’t. I know two guys got killed that night. Now his brother’s lying for him, and you’re trying to push me away from him.’
She’s crying properly now, and George is standing there watching her. Two guys died that night. Scott and McClure. She can’t know. Not really.
‘You’re just putting two and two together,’ he’s saying in a whisper.
‘Tell me I’m wrong,’ she’s demanding.
He’s pausing. Just a little too long. ‘Of course you’re wrong. You’re being hysterical,’ he’s saying. Doesn’t sound like he means it. Not one bit.
How a Gunman Says Goodbye Page 20