He’s an aggressive little driver, this fellow. Quick off his mark, pulling in front of people. He’s drawing plenty of attention to himself. Something Calum can’t copy. It’s causing him to fall back. Don’t push it. Don’t be tempted. Trust the traffic to slow the bastard down and bring him back towards you. The traffic never lets you down. If you know how to use it, you can escape a tail easily, or catch a tail easily. You just have to trust it. His tail is a red car. Probably smells a lot better than the crappy little banger William’s loaned him. Doesn’t look in much better condition, though. He’s as close now as he has been at any point. He’ll drop back a little, but first he wants a better look. Not at the driver, but the car. Get the number, then he can ID the driver any time. Provided the driver owns the car. In this business, they often don’t. Still, you take the number. They’ve been going fifteen minutes now. It’s getting irritating. His phone’s starting to rumble in his pocket. He has it on silent. Probably another call from Emma. Another one blanked.
He’s slowing down. Got his indicator on. He’s pulling in off the street. Into a little private car park, surrounded on three sides by high walls, one of them the back of an adjacent building. Calum’s carried on round the block. He can see the sign on the front of the building as he drives past, but he doesn’t need to. He knows it’s a police station. Never been in it, but he has a good idea where most of them are in the city. Round to the back again, looking for the driver. Gone. Must have gone straight in through the back door. The tradesmen’s entrance. This isn’t the place a man like Calum should be seen loitering, so he’s driving on. Frank, you dumb bastard. You met a cop. Did he even know he was meeting one when he went? He’s in such shit now. Or he will be, if Calum makes the report. Maybe he should give it more time. Give the old boy a chance to prove that he’s not in the process of pissing away forty years’ good service.
He’s gone back to Frank’s house. Driven past. The car’s there. He was half-hoping it wouldn’t be. Half-hoping it would be at the club, and Frank would be talking to Jamieson. Telling him that he has a cop in his pocket now. No such luck. He’s gone straight home, putting his feet up, out of the rain. Calum’s going to do the same. Nothing else he can do for now. Trying to think of an excuse not to report to Jamieson tonight. He should make the report. He knows it. That’s his job. You find something interesting, you report. He’s found something. Found Frank MacLeod spending twenty minutes in the company of a detective. Private meeting, just the two of them. All very hush-hush. But for whose benefit? Frank going to the cops. Jesus, it doesn’t bear thinking about. If he crossed that bridge, shit–they’re all finished. Calum will be wrecked. Jamieson and Young, and everyone else who ever worked for them. Frank knows so much. Too much.
He’s back at the flat. He’s not panicked. Calum doesn’t really do panic. A little sad about Frank; mostly annoyed at the prospect of having to move home again. If Frank’s blown his cover, then they’ll all be on the move. Looking for an angle. A way in which he could turn this to his advantage. A chance to get out of the organization. Hell, if Jamieson’s organization falls apart, then Calum’s free. All he has to do is stay out of jail. That would be just about impossible if he stays in the city. Stays in the country. If this was their first meeting, Frank might not have spilled many beans. This might have been them agreeing on a deal. In which case there’s still time to shut him up. If Calum reports tonight.
He’s walking up the stairs, more slowly than usual. Thinking things through. Now he’s seen her. Sitting at the top of the stairs, her phone in her hand.
42
She’s sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for him to sit down. He doesn’t want to. He knows what this is going to be. Or has a good idea. The sooner he sits, the sooner it happens.
‘I’ve called you,’ she’s saying. She looks angry. Upset.
‘Yeah,’ Calum’s saying. ‘I was helping William at his garage.’
‘We need to have a conversation,’ she’s saying. Here it comes. She looks serious. She’s good at that. ‘I want to ask you something.’
He’s sitting opposite, watching her. Trying to judge her expression. This is unpleasant for her, he can see that. Not just sad, but horrible. ‘Go on,’ he’s saying.
‘I’m not going to ask you what you do for a living. I think I know. I mean, I’m guessing what you generally do, not the specifics. I don’t really want to know. I’d rather not.’
Maybe she doesn’t want to know because it would upset her more, but that’s not what it sounded like. It sounded as if she wanted to maintain deniability. She knows there’s a lot to be said for blissful ignorance.
‘I want to ask you. Is there any chance…?’ She’s stopped and she’s laughing. Not the happy sort of laugh. ‘This just sounds stupid. Would you be willing to stop what you do for me?’
That was unexpected. He’s sitting there, thinking about it. She’s asking him to stop his work, for her. A woman he’s known for, what, two months? She’s asking him to make an almighty sacrifice. She doesn’t understand. That’s the truth of it. It seems like a romantic notion to her. The idea of her rescuing him from his degrading life of crime. She doesn’t realize what she’s asking. To walk away from his work would be to put his life at huge risk. Hers, too.
‘It’s not…’ How do you say this without making her think she’s playing second fiddle to his job? ‘That’s not how it works. You can’t walk away.’ How much does she know?
‘You can always walk away,’ she’s saying. ‘If you really want to.’
She’s so earnest. It’s one of her greater faults. Thinking that she knows everything. ‘I don’t know what exactly you think I do for a living. Maybe, if I started planning it now, I could walk away in a few months’ time. Although it wouldn’t be walking, it would be running.’
‘I know you’ve been lying to me,’ she’s saying. ‘You lied to me not five minutes ago. I know you weren’t with your brother today. Been lying to me since day one, I guess. Stupid me.’
Calum’s sighing. ‘I never…’ Nope, can’t finish that sentence without lying again. He’s a good liar. Better than his brother anyway. Better than George, too. ‘I want to be as honest with you as I can. It’s just… better that you don’t know some things.’
She’s nodding. She’s taking a hankie from her pocket, balling it up in her hands. ‘I’m not completely gullible, Calum,’ she’s saying quietly. ‘I knew you were lying at the time. I just didn’t look too deep. Didn’t want to see the truth. Well, I’ve looked now.’
Hard to respond to that. ‘Okay.’
‘I know that when you went out of here in the middle of the night last week it wasn’t to pick up your brother. I knew it at the time. I did. I knew it, but I let it go. I thought you were up to no good. I figured it was something I could overlook.’ A pause. ‘Do you know that two guys were found dead that night?’
Oh God, don’t do this. Calum thought she was smarter than that. If she thinks there’s murder involved, then she must realize that silence is her best option. Now he has to lie. No choice.
‘Whoa, wait a second. I hope you’re not suggesting I had something to do with people dying.’ Sounded convincing to him. Careful not to add a single detail that she hasn’t already offered. Sounding genuinely offended. Shocked.
She’s shaking her head. ‘I didn’t, at first. But then I went to see your brother. He lied to me about that night, same as you. He’s a bad liar, your brother. Takes him too long to think of an answer. I don’t think he’s as smart as you are. Then I went to see George. He tried to lie too. I mentioned those dead people. I saw his reaction. I know.’
He’s trying to laugh. It doesn’t sound right to him. Or to her. ‘I don’t know what the hell George said, but you have to know that’s not me. Jesus, Emma, what are you saying?’ What are you doing? That’s what he wants to ask. Why the hell are you setting off alarms all over the city? Questioning George. A man she must know is involved in the industry, too. How does she
think that’s going to end? This is the problem with people on the outside. They really think they’re untouchable. They think that, because they play by the law, everyone else will play nice with them. They think they’re protected by their own decency. They’re wrong.
‘Look, I don’t know how involved you were. I know you were involved, so let’s not lie to each other any more about that,’ she’s saying, holding up a hand before he can protest. ‘I just… I think you’re a good person. Or–I don’t know–capable of being one. If you want. All I’m asking is that you stop that life. Find a better one.’
He’s closing his eyes. He can’t make her understand. ‘I’m sorry, Emma; it just doesn’t work like that.’
She’s looking at him and she’s shaking her head. She thinks it’s a lack of will. The world seems that easy to her. You want to do something, so you do it.
‘I’m going to make it really easy for you,’ she’s saying. ‘You either quit what you do, or you don’t see me ever again. It’s that easy.’
He’s smiling wryly, which, incidentally, is the wrong response. He’s thinking about his work. What would her reaction be if she knew? There would be no ultimatums then. She would be gone, no matter what he promised her.
‘If it was as easy as you think it is, I would have done it already. I just don’t have that option.’
She’s nodding her head. Not saying anything. Twisting her mouth, trying to keep her emotions in.
It’s taken twenty seconds of silence. Then a big sigh. The sort that tells you that a mind’s made up. She’s getting up, pulling the strap of her bag over her shoulder. She’s looking down across the table at him. Now it’s just sadness.
‘Goodbye,’ she’s saying, and she’s making for the door.
He does wish there was something he could say. Something that would make her understand without making her hate him. Something that might rescue the relationship. Relationships are so rare in his life. Losing this one will hurt, he knows that. What’s the alternative? Everything he thinks about saying sounds stupid in his head. She’s opening the door.
‘I don’t want to do what I do,’ he’s saying. She’s stopped, and she’s looking back at him. Now she’s stepping out through the door and pulling it shut behind her. And he’s back where he started. Back where he should always have been. Alone.
43
Staring out the window, watching the rain come down. The life of the loner. How did Frank do it all these years? Calum’s been thinking about that for the last hour. Not thinking so much about Emma. He liked Emma, but it was only two months. She was great company, but anyone would have been welcome after so long without. Calum’s twenty-nine. Frank’s sixty-two. He’s had thirty-three more years of it. Right up until the Scott job he seemed as if he was handling it all happily. He must have had moments like this, when the sacrifices didn’t seem worth it. Maybe not. Maybe he was always stronger than Calum. It’s not the sort of thing you ever get to find out. No gunman is ever going to tell you about an emotional crisis. Strange thing is, this has only crept up on him in the last six months. Before that, nothing. He was happy to go along with the life he had. As long as he had control of it, he could live with the sacrifices.
A bitter determination. Time to take action. Do some work. Frank’s risking everyone’s freedom to try to protect his own. Inexcusable. Jamieson has to know. Calum’s pulling his coat on, picking up his car keys. No more messing around. This is the life you’re stuck with; let’s not make it any worse. He knew what the sacrifices were when he started. They’ve never been a surprise to him. He has no right moping about it now. You have a job. You have money. You have a life. You’ll have none of that if Frank talks to the plod. You don’t have to like the life you live, but you still have to protect it.
He’s out the door and down the stairs, out into the rain. Looking up and down the street. Moving slowly, not caring if he gets a little wet. It’s more important to be careful than dry. Make sure there’s nobody out there watching you. He’s in work mode now. He’s about to go and report to Jamieson. It’s important. The sort of thing Frank would want to stop if he were aware of it. It’s Frank he’s looking for, but there’s only an empty street looking back at him.
He’s parked a street away from the club. He’s walking briskly, but not too fast. The speed a person should walk in this weather without drawing attention. There’s nobody outside the front of the club, so he’s ducking into the alley. He’ll go in the side door. None of the regulars turn and look at him. They know better. Not for them to crane their necks at people who don’t want to be watched. A couple of people at the snooker tables look at him. Kenny’s one. The driver. He nods a hello and doesn’t say anything. The guy Kenny’s playing is Marty. A pimp and loan shark. A real scumbag with a big mouth. Calum doesn’t acknowledge him. He’s popular, though, because of what he supplies. All the wannabe gangsters want to get close to the guy who organizes the private parties. And he’s very profitable, so Jamieson and Young are willing to suffer his company now and again.
Marty’s probably there for a meeting. He’s probably sent word along the corridor to Jamieson that he wants to meet him. Doesn’t matter to Calum. Queue-jumping is hardly the worst thing he’s ever done. He’s marching along the corridor to Jamieson’s door. The security really is terrible, he’s thinking. Knocking on the door, waiting for a response. It takes a few seconds, but he gets a ‘Come in’. He’s opening the door and walking inside. Jamieson’s behind his desk. He’s sitting facing Young, who’s on the couch, as ever. They’re both looking at him. Watching him drip water onto the nice carpet. Calum has a stern look on his face, letting them know that this is serious. He tends to look stern and miserable anyway–it doesn’t require any effort. Perhaps they don’t realize that this is anything special. Jamieson’s turning back to Young, nodding dismissal.
Calum’s sitting across the desk from Jamieson. Jamieson’s good at doing the dead face, expressionless. He can do it whenever he wants to, which isn’t now. Now he looks worried. He knows Calum’s here to report, and that he wouldn’t turn up in the evening, drenched and dripping, unless he had something worth saying.
‘So what is it?’ Jamieson’s asking.
Worse than you think, Calum’s thinking. He won’t say that. That’s for Jamieson to judge. ‘I followed him yesterday and today. Yesterday, nothing. Today he went and met a guy. They met in a house out Renfrew way. I followed Frank in, followed the other guy out. The other guy drove back into the city centre. Stopped at Cowcaddens. At the police station. Parked in the car park, went in through the back. He was one of them.’
He’s told Jamieson what he needs to know. Now Jamieson’s saying nothing. Sitting there, staring at the top of his desk. It’s like he’s been asked a question he doesn’t know the answer to, and doesn’t want to admit it. He’s gone blank.
‘You sure he was a cop?’ he’s asking now. It’s a stupid question.
‘Wouldn’t have gone in the back on his own if he wasn’t.’ This doesn’t need to be said.
The wheels are turning. He’s thinking that every investigation that’s ever been done into his work has come from that station. He’s thinking that if Frank was ever going to turn grass, that’s where he would go. There are cops there desperate for Jamieson. They would protect Frank to get at the bigger fish. Frank could probably cut himself a handy deal.
‘There must have been contact before this meeting,’ Calum’s saying. He’s not going to sit in silence and play gooseberry to Jamieson and his brooding. ‘Phone records, maybe.’ If it was anyone else, Jamieson wouldn’t need corroborating evidence. But it’s Frank.
‘Tell me about the cop,’ Jamieson’s saying quietly.
‘Nothing special. Middle-aged, I’d say. Drove a red Renault. I didn’t get much of a look at him, but I got his reg.’ He’s taking a slip of paper from his coat pocket and passing it across the desk. It might be useless, it might not. ‘The only thing I noticed that might be something: when he cam
e out of the house, he looked pissed off about something. He came out after Frank. Gave him a head start. When he came out, he pulled open the car door, slammed it shut behind him. Looked as if he threw something onto the passenger seat–I don’t know what. He looked like a guy who didn’t get what he wanted out of the meeting.’ Offering Jamieson a crumb. It’s no more than that. The fact that the meeting happened is all he needs to know. Frank couldn’t gain protection without spilling a lot of beans. Not after everything he’s done. There’s no comfort in the suggestion that their first meeting wasn’t a roaring success.
Jamieson’s nodding. They both know the cop’s mood means nothing. Frank has broken the golden rule. There are all sorts of bullshit rules in the business, most of which mean the square root of nothing at all. Most rules are never enforced. Most only exist because people want to look strong. Want to look like they’re organized. Truth is, only two things matter. Money and police. You don’t screw a senior out of money; that will be punished. You don’t talk to the police; that will be punished severely. The rest of it’s minor. All the talk about loyalty and honour, that’s fantasy. Men have done appalling things and been forgiven because they were profitable. Money is god. Police are the devil. Frank’s supping with Satan, and will have to pay the price. They both know it. Nothing gets done until Jamieson confirms that he knows it. Doesn’t matter that Frank’s actions affect everyone else. Calum could go and do something about it and get away with it. He’d be forgiven, eventually. But you don’t do that. You don’t make the boss look weak by acting without permission.
How a Gunman Says Goodbye Page 22