by Jay Stringer
And he didn’t like the rain. It rained for 360 days a year. On the other five? Baking sunshine. Every skinny Ned in town takes his top off and worships the strange ball of fire in the sky.
The Merchant City bars were okay. They were overpriced and fashionable. But the private clubs were better. He’d take clients there for meetings, show them the town. He liked to play the part, show off his cash, even though it was always somebody else’s money he was spending.
He liked walking round the club, pointing at people, waving, being acknowledged. He liked to look, and feel, connected. And in London, he had been. He knew people, and they knew him. Rolling Stones tracks would play in his head whenever he crossed a room.
The move north had come packaged with a corporate reshuffle, a slap in the face disguised as a promotion. He’d been working as an investment manager for Paterson & Hood, one of London’s smaller hedge fund companies. He’d been the best thing to ever happen to them. That’s what he told his friends, and what he imagined people said behind his back. Alex was the best in the business at making money legally disappear. He was a wizard with numbers, spreadsheets and tax returns.
He learned the hard way: don’t be too successful in the big city. You don’t want people to notice you, not really. You want to look important, you want to be able to look rich out on the town and impress your mates. But you don’t want the big fish to notice you. They don’t look at you and decide to offer you a job; they buy your company because it’s getting big enough to get noticed.
A lesson learned when, on a Monday evening, he was taken out for a meal by Ozzy Paterson and Noel Hood, the two retired owners, and told that the company he’d taken so high was being sold to a bank from the Middle East.
‘Well done, Alex,’ they had assured him. ‘It’s all down to you.’
Which he’d already known.
‘Your job will be safe,’ they had said. ‘One of the promises we’ve had is that you will be kept on. They don’t want to lose you.’
It was a half-truth. They didn’t want to lose him. They wanted to mail him up to run the Glasgow office of another company in their portfolio. MHW. He’d be the boss. The top person in the company, in charge of the most important clients.
He nodded. Took the promotion. Maybe this would be his big break. It would be easier to feel like a big player in Glasgow. It’s smaller than London, but still one of the biggest cities in the UK.
Nope. No dice.
He was a nobody up here.
A nobody who handled a lot of money.
Alex ran MHW in name only. He answered to a woman named Asma Khan, the euphemistically titled Asset Manager for the people behind the scenes. And he also found out that the official story – MHW being owned by a Middle Eastern bank – was only part of the tale. MHW was a cartel, one that had already moved on Birmingham, Liverpool and Manchester.
Glasgow was just the next step.
They wanted Alex for his skills with numbers, but MHW wasn’t really under his control.
Still, he’d been sticking it out for his wife, Kara.
Kara had given up a good job to move with him. She’d been working as the media manager for a Premier League team in London. Alex knew it had been a tough choice for her to walk away. She was the sort of person who could make friends everywhere. Kara had built up a new community around her in Glasgow, and taken a job running the marketing and corporate hospitality for a local team. In three years she’d managed to make herself the centre of a whole social scene, one which Alex didn’t understand at all. It involved art exhibitions and shopping, and drinking cocktails made up of funny colours.
Alex didn’t understand funny colours.
He really only understood status and money.
And once he realised the status of the people whose money he was handling, the plan began to form. Now he had ten million pounds in an offshore account, and a further five million in cash stored away in an apartment in the Merchant City, a place even his wife didn’t know about. Fifteen million, all in.
And who was going to notice? These idiots came to Alex to manage things, he was the one they left in charge of noticing irregularities, and he certainly wasn’t going to report on himself.
He was rich.
He and Kara could be set for life.
The only problem was, they would come looking for him if he ran. They would track the two of them down, and kill them. Alex was trapped. He couldn’t spend the money while he was alive.
He needed to die first.
FOURTEEN
SAM
17:30
Cassette tapes?
Who still used cassette tapes?
That’s what was inside the package. Three tapes.
Each one was labelled.
Cal’s Log.
The Meeting.
Sexy Time Mix Tape 1999.
There was no way I was handing those over without listening to them first. I mean, come on. Aside from all the questions I already had, about Paula Lucas and a delivery to a fake address, now I had this new question to solve:
Who still uses cassette tapes?
I couldn’t get straight to it, though, because I had a paying customer waiting. For all that I wanted answers to the questions, and to find out what this all had to do with Paula Lucas, I had bills to cover. When you’re a freelancer, the gigs that pay always come first.
I had a meeting with a client at 6 p.m. Going back to the crime scene had lost me some time. I’d planned my afternoon around being able to head home and shower before going out to meet my client. I didn’t really have time for that now. I lived out in Parkhead, to the east of the city centre, and my appointment was at Firhill, a football stadium on the opposite side of town.
I keep some work clothes in my bag. A grey pencil skirt and jacket, rolled up tight. They’re creased, and it’s not the most professional look in the world, but it’s better than rocking up to a meeting looking like a sweaty bike messenger.
I’d gone out with a Partick Thistle player for a few months, at the start of the year. Milo Nardini. Despite the Italian name, he was pure Glaswegian, and had grown up in the shadow of Celtic Park. He was the grandson of Italian immigrants, and he combined Mediterranean looks with a real East End laugh. He was young, funny and good in bed. Beneath the laddish image he liked to show to the world, I’d found a shy little geek. He was obsessed with Star Wars, Star Trek and The X Files. He had a room in his apartment filled with action figures, still sealed in their boxes. I didn’t really like any of those things, but his passion for them gave him a goofy charm.
He’d become Hanya’s latest proof that I was avoiding meaningful relationships. The last man I’d really trusted had turned out to be a crooked cop and, worse, a murderer. Since then, I’d stuck mostly to meeting up with other guys on the messenger circuit, and to short-term fuses like Milo Nardini.
Milo had been the hottest ticket in town for the first half of the season. He’d scored fifteen goals in the first ten games, and was starting to attract the interest of Celtic. Not long after we’d hooked up, his form on the pitch took a dip. The more we messed around in the sack, the more he messed up on the pitch. The fans started getting on his back over his performances, and the journalists were questioning whether he was good enough to play for the club. Celtic’s scouts stopped going to matches.
I learned where I stood in Milo’s priorities when he dumped me to focus on his football. He was worried about losing his big move, and the money that would come with it. He’d played the poverty card, and claimed football was his one shot at making something. Completely oblivious to the fact I grew up in the same part of town, and saw right through his crap.
Milo finished out the season with twenty-five goals, and now a few English teams were rumoured to be after him. I hoped he didn’t sign for Celtic, because I didn’t want to cheer when he scored for my team.
I took it easy on the ride there. The stadium was only twenty minutes away by bike, so I didn’t need to push mys
elf too hard. I chained the bike up in the staff-only car park, and walked into the reception. I knew the kid behind the desk. Chris. He was too sweet and too young, always eager to please anyone he found attractive.
‘Hey Sam,’ he said, standing up straight when he saw me.
‘Hiya, Chrispy. I’ve got an appointment with the evil one in a few minutes, but I need to change, got a room I could use?’
‘Uh, sure, toilets?’ He pointed up the stairs.
‘Kara might see me, and I want to look professional.’ I leaned in and smiled. He met my eyes then looked down. Nervous. Sweet. ‘Anywhere down here?’
He opened a door behind the desk and waved me into the small office. I pushed the door closed behind him, and looked around the small cluttered space. There were a couple of chairs and a desk, and a ton of unopened mail. Someone had put a Celtic calendar on the wall. I assumed none of the club’s directors ever saw this room, because they’d not be happy about the calendar. I got changed into my suit. My hair was a mess from the day’s work, but all I could do was comb it and hope for the best.
I thanked Chris on the way past, and he said, ‘S-sure.’
Isn’t that sweet?
I headed up the stairs to the hospitality suite, where Kara Pennan was already waiting. Kara worked some kind of magic trick. Despite me never wanting to look anything like the kind of person she was, within seconds of greeting her I always wondered what I could do to look more like her. She was tall and statuesque, with dark skin and a smile that never showed any signs of warmth. She was always smoothly turned out, in pressed, spotless clothes, and carried a glacial poise in every movement.
Kara stood up from one of the round tables and offered me her hand, then the double cheek kiss. ‘Sam, darling,’ she said. ‘Thanks for coming.’
‘What can I do for you?’
She lost her poise for a second. She bit her lip, and her face betrayed a youthfulness I’d never seen in her. ‘I think my husband is cheating on me,’ she said.
FIFTEEN
FERGUS
18:00
Killing people and disposing of the bodies are two different skill sets. People don’t always think about that. Some people can take someone out, but are terrible at the clean-up. Others can make a body disappear, but struggle at turning a person into a corpse.
I’m at the top of the game because I’m good at both.
And I charge accordingly.
Joe has only paid me for the hit on this one. He wanted people to find Martin Mitchell. He wanted the death to make the news. So I’m halfway down a homemade burrito when Joe Pepper finally calls about the bodies. Joe is a decent guy. A good client. He always explains why the target needs to die, and most of the time he’s telling the truth. He pays my whole fee in advance, which not many people are willing to do in the present financial climate.
(It’s getting tough to be a killer in the city.)
The problem is, all clients think they know the job better than me.
Maybe that’s universal. I expect someone who hires a roofer will then stand and tell the roofer exactly how it should be done. A plumber probably has to listen to a thesis on how to connect running water from the jamoke who hired him. And so it goes for me. It doesn’t matter that I’m the guy you hire so that you don’t have to worry about the dirty work, you’ll still want to feel like I need direction.
I know Joe’s going to call me. My little mess-up changes the game. But he’s taking his time, and the idea of a burrito has been calling at me all day. My taste for them comes from the two years that I spent working in New York, when I first went freelance. But now they’re everywhere. I think there are half a dozen places within two square miles in Glasgow, and I’m not complaining.
So I’m halfway down a barbacoa, with pinto beans and guac, when I get the call.
‘Hi Joe.’
Joe doesn’t bother with a greeting. ‘Is this line good?’
Joe’s with a political party, and those guys are obsessed with the thought that the newspapers might be listening in. And, let’s be honest, they’ve got a point.
I have a contract phone in my own name, and Joe has that number, but it’s never used for business. When I’m on the job, I rotate burners, a new one for each hit. I destroy the SIMs once they’re used.
‘Aye,’ I say. ‘This one’s good, don’t worry. I’ll be switching it tonight.’
‘I’m at the flat,’ he says. ‘What the fuck?’
Joe and me have a pretty easy-going relationship. But I can hear the nerves in his voice, and this isn’t the time to make with the funny.
‘Want a hand?’
That’s a euphemism, really. Offering to help is really me offering to step in and clean it all up. For extra money, of course. When Joe says, yes, I tell him I’ll be there in thirty minutes.
It’s only a twenty-minute walk, but I want to finish my burrito.
Food of the gods.
SIXTEEN
ALEX
18:00
Alex still hadn’t told Kara about his plan. He’d been too self-conscious to do it before, too aware that it sounded a little bit mad. But now that he was following through, and meeting with professionals, it was time to fill her in.
She’d be important, after all. She was the one who would need to play along, grieve in public and collect the money.
Kara had been in meetings all day and hadn’t returned any of his calls, so Alex decided to turn up at her work and surprise her. He drove out to Firhill, the football stadium where she worked. It was the home of Partick Thistle, a small football club that couldn’t help being stuck in the same city as two of the biggest teams in the world.
Alex had found the location confusing when he first moved up here. Partick was farther to the south. It was part of the West End, where the students and hipsters lived. A football team based there could have been like a smaller, more Glaswegian version of Fulham, a club that aimed for some kind of hip boutique status.
Firhill wasn’t down in that part of town, though. Almost as if the people who owned the team had wanted some kind of street cred, the football club bearing Partick’s name was actually based in Maryhill. This was to the north of the city, and was much poorer and more run down.
It was fun to wind Kara up, though, so Alex still called it the West End.
Alex parked around the back of the stadium, in the staff-only area behind the Jackie Husband stand, and walked into the main reception. The young man behind the desk smiled and nodded a greeting. He had short blond hair and looked to be wearing foundation. The staff here always remembered who he was, because most of them worked for his wife and valued their jobs, but Alex could never remember their names.
‘Hi, Mr P. Looking for Kara?’
He nodded that he was.
‘She’s up in the bar,’ the young man said. ‘She’s meeting with someone, but I’m sure she won’t mind if you let her know you’re here.’
Alex mumbled a thank you and headed up the stairs. Firhill wasn’t a large stadium. Space was limited, and most rooms served multiple purposes. The main bar was used on match days for corporate hospitality and private parties, but on weekdays it was often where staff would hold meetings. Although the bar itself was officially closed during the week, there was always someone around who could serve Alex a drink and find him a seat. And he never knew their names, either.
Kara was sitting at one of the large round tables near the bar. She was talking to another woman, someone who wasn’t doing a great job of wearing a suit. It was creased and bunched up around her elbows, and Alex could smell the kind of spray deodorant in the air that he knew Kara would rather die than use. Kara turned to look at Alex as he walked in, and there was a smile that followed a few seconds later.
Kara stood up, and the young woman followed.
‘Hi babe,’ Alex said. He stepped closer and leaned in for a kiss.
Kara wrinkled her nose and then turned her cheek toward him. She’d smelled the booze on his b
reath. Alex knew she wouldn’t call him on it while she was in business mode, but there would be a slight dig later on.
‘Alex, this is Sam.’ Kara gestured to the young woman, who put a hand out for a shake. ‘Sam, this is my husband, Alex.’
‘Hiya,’ Sam said.
There was a light behind Sam’s eyes. One of those people who’ve got a lot going on up there, Alex thought, that you want to find out about over too many drinks at a bar. That is, if she wasn’t standing next to Kara. Alex had never met anyone quite like his wife. She was tall, and had poise, some kind of presence that made people notice when she walked in the room. Her parents had moved over from Kenya before she was born, and even though she was pure south London, there was always a little foreign tilt to her words that drove him nuts. And after three years in Scotland, a touch of Glaswegian had started to find its way into the mix.
‘Sam’s a private investigator,’ Kara said. ‘Isn’t that amazing?’
Alex caught both the slight patronising edge to Kara’s words and that Sam picked up on it. But all three of them moved past it and onto the next thought.
‘I’ve never met a real PI,’ Alex said. ‘It must be an interesting job.’
‘It has its moments,’ Sam nodded. ‘But mostly it’s routine stuff. I serve a lot of legal papers, take pictures of cheating husbands.’
That hung in the air for a second, and Alex couldn’t help wondering what Kara was meeting with a PI for. Was someone at the club up to no good? He turned to smile at her, and she read the question that he wasn’t asking.
‘Oh,’ she said. She paused, and looked from Alex to Sam and back again. ‘Someone’s been mailing death threats to the club. To the players, I mean. Sam’s going to look into it.’
‘Sounds like fun,’ Alex said.
Kara was lying. Alex knew that much. He didn’t know the details, but it didn’t matter. They each had secrets about their jobs. Alex had never told her where the company’s money really came from, and there were things that went on at the club that Kara didn’t talk about. That was fine. Alex had worked with enough footballers to know there’s a code of silence over certain issues. Football isn’t like a normal job. It’s show business. There are certain pieces of information that need to be controlled, and if Kara needed to bring in a detective to look into something that was going on at the club, it probably wasn’t any of Alex’s business.