The meeting with Jamieson has been on his mind constantly. It almost doesn’t matter how much Jamieson knows. Their conversation was so awkward. It was more like two old enemies than two old friends. Frank’s seen it before. Seen most things before. Never been on the receiving end, though. It’s the talk you have when you’re so far on the outside that you become a threat. The old employee who knows too much. Who has to be silenced. Seen that before. Done the silencing. He’s been kidding himself, pretending that this wouldn’t happen to him. That his relationship with Peter Jamieson was different from the rest. It was always going to happen. Gunmen don’t get happy retirements. Nobody gets to walk away.
48
Walking round the flat, just going in circles. Getting some of the nervous energy out of the way before he sets off. It’s actually nice to be able to do it. A relief, almost. If Emma was still here, then he could never prepare properly. Well, properly might be the wrong word. There is no properly. There’s just whatever works. Pacing around the flat, planning what to do with each half-hour until you leave–that works for Calum. He’ll get something to eat. Something light, nothing that’ll play on his stomach when his nerves are running. The nerves are worst during this preparation. The two or three hours before you leave for the job. When it’s under way you have so much else to think about. A good gunman’s focus will crush his nerves. You have to think clearly. For now, he paces and plots.
It’s after midnight when he leaves the flat. Black jeans, comfy black trainers, a plain navy-blue top. He picked up his gun from his usual supplier a few hours ago; he’ll return it as soon as the job is done. An expensive rental, rather than a purchase. Got a silencer for this job. Rarely uses them. Expensive and awkward. You only take them on a difficult job that needs every precaution. Jobs like this.
He’s taking his car to the meeting place agreed with George. They’ll take the van that George is picking up to do the job. Another job that’ll need a removal. He hates that. But it’s Frank. Jamieson wants the maximum respect shown; have Frank treated as well as a murdered man can be. The removal has something to do with covering tracks, no doubt. Try to make it look like another disappearance. Too many awkward jobs in a row. The chances of something going wrong are piling up. It would be so nice to have a couple of simple jobs. This is the price you pay. The price of working for an organization. Things are never straightforward.
He’s pulling up in the parking places outside a cash-and-carry. There’s CCTV, but it won’t be working tonight. The building’s owned by Jamieson, or by someone who works for Jamieson. It’s complicated, but Jamieson’s on a percentage and George will have made sure about the security. This is where he has to trust someone else with his safety. George is sitting in the van already. Small, old, white, no markings on the side. Nothing that anyone could possibly remember. Getting to the point where its age might become notable. Calum may have to point that out to Young, make sure he has it replaced. He’s leaving his own car unlocked, with the keys tucked inside the sun visor. A risk he has to take. Doesn’t want to be found with his own keys on him. Doesn’t want to be found with anything on him. On this job, it shouldn’t be an issue. The target already knows him. Still, plan for every eventuality; make sure you have nothing about your person that could identify you. He’s dropping into the passenger side of the van. Nodding a hello to George.
George looks more of a wreck than Calum’s ever seen him. Looks like he hasn’t slept for days. Looks like he’s been out partying. It could be nerves. Frank has an aura about him. The greatest gunman in the city, so they all say. George should know better. People get reputations, but it’s like Chinese whispers. A rumour starts, word goes round and, before you know it, people have reputations based on nonsense. People become known for things far removed from what they’ve actually done. Sure, Frank was one of the greats. Up until he walked through Tommy Scott’s front door, Calum might have believed in that mystique too. Seeing Frank sitting on the floor, guarded by Clueless McClure, quickly broke that spell. Frank used to be great. Now he’s not. Now he’s problematic. That’s the business. George can be as nervous as he likes. He’s the driver and he’ll help with disposal. Killing is Calum’s job.
‘You get everything we need?’ Calum’s asking. The collection of tools for a removal was left in George’s hands.
‘Think so. Couple of spades, big canvas body bag, couple of spare bags.’ He’s finishing with a shrug of the shoulders. Calum’s meticulous about these things. Demanding, to the point of annoyance. George has done this sort of job with him before, though. No surprises here.
‘Let’s go,’ Calum’s saying. It’s after half past midnight now; by the time he gets into the house it’ll be after one. He wants this done quickly. Someone could be watching the front of the house, so it has to be quiet and has to be quick. Who’s likely to be watching? Another organization. Maybe Shug’s. Could be police. They could be killing someone else’s target. Forget all that. He has to put it out of his mind, focus on his own job. Never mind what other people are doing. This is going to be hard enough.
George is driving. They’re nearly there. It’s a wet night, which is bad news. Soft ground means footprints, and no doubt George hasn’t brought plastic bags to put over their shoes at the burial. Boot prints can be one more clue you don’t want to give away. They won’t drive along Frank’s street to check for watchers. Frank’s back garden looks onto the garden of the house in the next street, an alleyway in between. That’s the entry point. George has parked the van on the street at the bottom of the alley. If anyone’s watching Frank’s house, they’ll be close. Calum’s looking at George. George is usually the talkative one, yet he’s had nothing to say. It’s that kind of job, Calum supposes.
‘Give me ten minutes, then come in soft,’ he’s saying.
‘Aye,’ George is nodding. ‘Good luck, pal.’
A little nod. Calum’s pulling on his balaclava, opening the van door.
Trying to make as little sound as possible. Walking as close to the wall at the bottom of the row of gardens as possible. Not a great place for a job. A group of occupied houses close together. Too many bedroom windows looking down on the alleyway. Going to be hard to move the body without some nosy bastard twitching the curtains. Especially if they hear a bang beforehand. The silencer will keep it quiet, but there’s still the flash to think about. Closed curtains, hopefully. The victim can make a noise. Hell, even a silenced piece makes a sound. Better to use a knife for silence, but that would be messy. Blood everywhere. Could never hide what happened there. He’s halfway to Frank’s back garden. Counting the houses as he passes, making sure he gets the right one. Dodging bins and a lone bicycle optimistically chained to a rotting wooden gate. Silent so far, but now he’s reached Frank’s gate.
He’s pressing down the latch slowly, not making so much as a scrape. Pushing it open, peering inside before he makes a step. There aren’t likely to be any obstacles yet. They’ll come when he gets inside. The only fear would be Frank standing there, waiting for him. Not a realistic fear, but this is no realistic target. He’s stepped inside the gate and shut it behind him. Looking at the windows. Not for light–Frank would never be so sloppy. Checking for movement. Frank lining up a shot from an open window. No, he wouldn’t kill a man in his own garden. Frank knows better. He can explain a bang from within his house, but not a body lying flat out on the grass with an extra hole in it. Put yourself in Frank’s shoes. What would you be doing right now? He must have set up some sort of alarm. He can’t be lying asleep in there, thinking there’s no threat to him. Not Frank. He must recognize the danger, and he must be ready for it. That’s what Calum’s looking out for as he walks slowly towards the back door. He’s taking the key from his pocket, placing it silently in the lock. Taking his gun from his inside pocket before he turns the key. This is where he starts looking out for traps.
49
He knew what he would do about ten minutes after Fisher left the house. It was actually l
iberating. It’s the first time since he woke up on the floor of Scott’s corridor that he’s known exactly what to do. First time since then that he’s felt in control. It’s nice to have your focus back, even if it might not last long. He’s in work mode now. Thinking about everything he’ll need. Plotting, considering, playing out eventualities in his mind. If this was life, then everything would be okay. This he can do, and do well. He doesn’t need a lot of equipment for this job. The only thing that’s taken any amount of time to find was his passport. Frank, like Calum, is a very neat person. Everything in its rightful place. Things should never be hard to find. It’s a useful mindset, always being able to reach out and grab whatever you might need. Only his passport wasn’t in his bedside cabinet under his never-used cheque book, as usual. It was still in the side pocket of one of the bags he took to Spain with him. Recovering in the sunshine at Peter Jamieson’s expense.
It’ll be Calum. No great mystery in that. Peter will show enough respect to send his best man. Technically his only man, but he could have hired a freelancer. Young will have Frank’s replacement lined up. Probably Shaun Hutton. That’s the obvious one. He was clearly the Scott leak, looking to ingratiate himself with Jamieson. He’ll get the gig when the time’s right. Wouldn’t be Frank’s first pick. Too flaky. Never held down a position before. Besides, they need someone who can work with Calum. When they’re done with Shug, they’ll be aiming at bigger targets. There will be jobs that require more than one armed man willing to pull a trigger. Frank’s done a couple of those in his time. If you don’t trust the other guy, it can be an unpleasant experience. Waiting for them to say or do something wrong. It could be hard to find another gunman that a guy like Calum will work with. Frank’s smiling to think of Calum. All moody and silent. Just a little bit superior. Other gunmen aren’t going to enjoy working with him. They’ll accept it, though. They’ll accept it because he’s good.
It’s because Calum’s good that Frank needs to be better prepared. He’ll come in the back. Logic says he won’t use the front for a target like Frank. Too much risk. You knock on a target that doesn’t expect you. They open the door and you barge inside. A good way of getting in without breaking doors or windows. Calum will realize that Frank is on high alert. He’ll come in the back. Maybe wedge it with a crowbar; it is a thin, old door. A key. Jesus, of course. They’ll have made a key up. Young will. That clever little bastard will have done it years ago, on a day when he knew Frank wasn’t at home. Something a lot of the big organizations do. Make sure they have easy access to their own people. Frank’s at the back door. Clearing everything away. Making preparations. Making sure it looks like a house that’s been abandoned by someone with no intention of return. Making sure his departure won’t appear as sudden as it will actually be. Wiping surfaces, tidying everything away. Gathering up the few things that a man who wants to disappear should take with him.
Back upstairs to the bedroom. Not the best place for it to happen–it’s just creating more work, being this far away from the back door, but it’s where Calum will expect him to be. It’s a small house, so there aren’t many better options. The back door opens into the kitchen. That would mean firing on sight, and a gunshot with the back door open is out of the question. Better not to do it in a front room. Frank wants a little light to work with. More people could see light from the front. So the back bedroom. He’s taking a spare pillow from the cupboard, placing it at the bottom of the bed. His passport, cheque book, credit card, wallet, mobile phone, driver’s licence, coded contacts books and a few old photos he’s placing neatly on the dresser opposite the bottom of the bed. Everything where it can be grabbed quickly and swept into a bag upon exit. The last thing to do, before the waiting. The curtains are closed, but, thick as they are, he’s not going to risk putting the light on. He wants some light, though. He’s pressing the head of his anglepoise bedside lamp downwards and switching it on. Not a lot of light escaping. Enough to see with, not so much that it can penetrate the curtains and be seen outside.
That’s it. That’s all the preparation done. It’s not even midnight yet. Calum won’t arrive until around one at the earliest. It would usually be after two–that’s the busy hour for gunmen. Much less likely to bump into random drunks and lost souls if you leave it just a little later. They’ll be planning a removal, though. This isn’t a murder to send a message. They’ll have a vehicle to move him in, a burial place planned. Frank’s sitting in the chair beside the wardrobe, facing the open door. It’s an old cushioned chair. A wreck of a thing, he’s had it near thirty years, but it’s the comfiest seat in the house. A good place to sit and contemplate things. With a removal, they’ll come early. Desperate to make sure the burial is finished and everyone’s back home before the sun rises. They’ll be cursing the rain. Frank’s thinking about a lot of things, a lot of people. Most of them involved in the business. It’s been his life for so long. That and nothing else. He met some interesting people, did some things he can hardly believe now. There’s a little smile on his lips as the clock goes past one o’clock.
He’s in the back door. Hasn’t made a sound yet. Closing it behind him, slow and careful. Breathing low and slow. Through the kitchen and into the hall. No lights. No sound. No movement. He’s gently pushing open the living-room door with his left hand, gun in his right. Nothing in there. Moving slowly across to the downstairs bedroom. Empty. In all likelihood he’s in his own bed, but you have to check. The nightmare is getting to the bedroom, only to have Frank creep up on you. Leave no enemy standing behind you. Onto the stairs now. Pressing each downward step against the edge of the stair on the wall side. Stairs creak, more so in the middle. Even with this precaution they’re creaking gently with each step. The first noise he’s made so far. Grimacing slightly as he reaches the last few steps and turns the corner at the top of the stairs. Too much noise when you’re trying to surprise a man like Frank. Now that he’s round the corner he can see that it’s much too late for that.
Frank’s sitting in a chair opposite the door, looking out into the corridor. There’s light, but not much. An old man, sitting in the gloom, staring back at him. He has a sad look on his face. Calum’s raised the gun. First instinct, get him in his sights. Frank’s smiling now, and raising his hands.
‘You don’t need to do that,’ he’s telling Calum. ‘Come in.’
Calum isn’t moving. Still pointing the gun, trying to judge this. Frank will know it’s him, balaclava or not. What trap does he have in there? Might be safer to shoot from here, make sure that part of the job is safely done. He has a clear shot to take. There could be someone behind the door. Not likely. Frank wouldn’t hire someone else. Not his style. Too much of a risk. Can’t rule it out, though. A dangerous and desperate man. Clinging onto the edge of the cliff, hanging on by the last finger. Calum’s stepping forward. It’s two forms of caution clashing. His instinct to shoot, beaten by his instinct not to rush a job. He’s in the doorway now. Can’t see a trap.
Frank’s getting up from the chair, hands still raised. Calum’s risking a quick look round the door. Nothing there. Looking back at Frank. The low light. The vital belongings on the cabinet. He’s starting to realize what this is. He’s looking at Frank, puzzled. Even in the gloom, and with his face covered, Frank can see the disbelief.
‘It’s the end,’ Frank’s saying. He’s getting up and moving to the foot of the bed, turning round. Now dropping to his knees, putting his hands behind his back. Making it as easy for Calum as possible. Being down on his knees already means he won’t have far to fall. Should prevent, or at least reduce, blood-splatter when he goes down. Calum’s seen the pillow. Frank’s done everything to make this as clean and simple a job as possible. He really has given up. This is suicide by hitman.
Everything’s there for him. The belongings Calum can take that’ll make it look like a disappearance. The pillow that can both muffle the gunshot flash and reduce blood-spray from the entry wound. He feels he should say something, but he won
’t. Professional instinct. The moment arrives and you must take it. He’s picking up the pillow. There’s a twinge in his hand, the effort bringing his injury alive again. Standing behind Frank now. Pressing the pillow against the back of his head. Complete silence. Pressing the barrel of the gun into the pillow. Using his left hand to pull one side of the pillow around the gun. Pulling the trigger. A muffled whoosh. No blood-spray. Frank falling forward. Hitting the floor. Calum’s automatically kneeling down beside him, pressing the pillow tightly against the wound. Not even thinking about it. Not processing that it’s Frank who’s just died. That it’s Frank they’re about to remove. Just thinking about the job. Thinking about how much he hates it now.
It’s only a couple of minutes later when a wary George emerges at the top of the stairs. Calum, still holding the pillow tight, is glancing at him.
‘Bring in the bag,’ he’s saying quietly, ‘and a carrier bag for his stuff.’
George is standing there, looking at them. Looking upset. He’s nodding, turning and going back down the stairs. Another one Calum can’t trust. It could only have been from George that Emma got wind of his true profession. There’s no one he can trust. Before, when he was freelance, he didn’t have to trust anyone. A luxury then, a necessity now. Now he has to trust others, and he can’t. You can’t survive this way. It always catches up with you. Takes longer for some than for others. Frank lasted longer than anyone. Nobody lasts all the way to the end.
Calum’s kneeling beside him, looking at the body of the man who used to do his job. Looking at his future.
How a Gunman Says Goodbye Page 25