by Jay Stringer
I slip my gun into the harness stitched into my jacket. My hand stops shaking straight away. I bow a little at the guys and say, ‘Thanks.’ Then add, ‘Might be best if you lay low for a few days. Joe is pissed off.’
I walk out and leave them to their cloud of imagination fuel. On my way down the stairs I call Joe.
‘The leak is already dead,’ I say when he picks up. I give him a quick rundown of what they said. I only do the edited version, saying Paula was an undercover cop who’d lost touch with her people, and that she’d been claiming the cops were corrupt, and a foreign gang were buying out Glasgow. When I mention the bit about Paula’s boss being killed, he makes a grunting noise that tells me he already knew that part of the story.
‘I didn’t know he had someone working with him,’ he says. ‘Butler never gave anyone else up. Good for him, I guess. We worked him hard.’
‘I have Paula’s address,’ I say. ‘Want me to head round and see if she has any proof hidden away that might burn you?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘I’ll deal with that.’
I give him the address through a grin. I’ve left out the parts about him scheming to take over the city, and the real reason I was hired to kill Martin. Joe has no idea I know about that, and he wants to keep me in the dark.
He’ll send one of his dirty cops round to Paula’s address.
‘Are we clear?’ I say.
After a long pause he says, ‘Yes. Enjoy your holiday, bawbag.’
I know what you’re up to, Joe.
That might come in handy.
One problem down. One to go.
Time to get back to Alex. I try dialling his burner, but it rings out. Baws.
I’ll head round to his building again, try and figure out which flat is his.
SIXTY-FIVE
SAM
12:32
The room was small.
The old tenements had huge rooms. In poorer times, each room would have housed two or three families. Now, many of the buildings had been renovated, and the rooms divided up to create private spaces. The wall to the right looked like it was original. It had older wallpaper, and there was a fireplace in the middle.
The wall to the left was thin and new.
There was a single bed pressed against the new wall, neatly made with a cushion on top of the duvet. The disinfectant smell was in the air, and the window had been opened to let it dissipate.
This didn’t strike me as how Paula would have left it.
‘Sarah,’ Hanya called out. ‘Have you tidied in here since Paula went out?’
‘Oh yes. Always do. She never makes the bed. Gives me something to do.’
There were no bookshelves, DVDs, not even a TV. There was a dressing table underneath the window, and a chest of drawers near the fireplace. A wooden kitchen chair was next to the bed. I started going through the dressing table, and Hanya took the drawers.
I found a small ashtray on the windowsill, with a few half-used joints stacked neatly. There was a plate on the dressing table that had been used as a dumping ground for loose change, hair pins and assorted business cards. One of them was mine.
I raised it up for Hanya to see, then slipped it into my pocket. Best not to have anything in here with my name on.
‘If you were an undercover cop,’ I said to her quietly, ‘where would you hide things?’
‘If I were an undercover cop, why would I be here?’ she said. ‘And why would I be undercover in the first place?’
Well, sure, those were better questions.
I got down on my knees and started looking under the furniture. Under the bed I found a small notebook and a purse. The latter held a few bank cards in Paula’s real name, and fifty pounds in notes. I opened the notebook on the mattress. A few other business cards fell out. Journalists, a couple of other private investigators. The first few pages were covered with dates and names. The last one with anything written on just contained three words in big black ink, Who is clean??
The rest of the pages were blank.
‘Wait a minute,’ I said.
I looked down again at the words. I thought back to the guy on the reception desk at the hotel.
‘I saw some lassie on a pushbike a few minutes earlier, and I saw the cops, but I didn’t see anything else.’
I hadn’t really listened to what he said. Or rather, I had, but I’d let what I knew about the events taint what I heard. He’d only seen me and the cops. He wouldn’t have connected a timeline, because he didn’t know when the attack took place. I’d added that on afterwards. Of course he’d seen the cops, I’d assumed, they turned up after the attack.
What if they’d turned up before?
Then Joe Pepper had called me after I’d handed my business card to Dasho and Robinson. I’d watched Robinson talking into his phone seconds before mine rang. Had it been Joe on the other end? This all fit together too neatly.
‘Han, I’ve got a very bad feeling. You know those loose threads you’re always telling me not to pull on?’
She nodded. ‘I’m getting it, too.’
‘Paula is an undercover cop. She’s investigating a conspiracy. She’s killed in the street, and the only people my witness can remember seeing are me and the cops.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And everywhere we go in this, we’re running into Joe, Robinson and Dasho.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And the CCTV footage seems to have gone missing.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And Joe Pepper is able to make CCTV footage vanish.’
‘Yeah.’
Hanya pulled her jacket off and rolled up her shirt sleeve, then leaned into the fireplace and started feeling around. She grunted as she found something. She slipped on a pair of plastic gloves from her pocket, and reached back inside, producing a gun. I don’t know the first thing about weapons, but Hanya is an expert. She ran her hands over it, wiped some dust away, and smoothly clicked a button that released the clip.
‘Glock,’ she said. ‘Fully loaded.’
She slammed the clip back in.
The door buzzer rang. We both froze as we listened to Sarah shuffle down the hallway. She held a brief conversation with a muffled electronic voice, then called out for us to hear.
‘It’s more of your polis.’
Hanya slipped the gun into the waist of her trousers, at the small of her back. She shrugged her jacket back on to cover it. Neither of us could be found there. Hanya wasn’t on official business, and she’d helped me impersonate a police officer.
We heard the front door open, and Sarah said, ‘Oh, hello, come on in. I was just talking to some friends of yours.’
Then we heard Alan Dasho say, ‘Really?’
SIXTY-SIX
ALEX
12:38
Alex opened his eyes.
He regretted it straight away.
The room was spinning, and his skull was buzzing beneath the skin. There was a red stain creeping across the vision in his right eye. Alex closed his eyes again and willed the room to stop moving.
There was a copper taste in his mouth. Running his tongue across his teeth, he felt some of them coming loose.
Okay.
Let’s take this slow.
Test it out. One eye at a time.
He eased his right eyelid up. The red mist still tinted the room. His skull was still hurting, but a little less so. Either the pain had faded, or he’d got used to it. He opened his left eye slowly, then tried blinking a few times.
There was a delay with his right eyelid. It was running a few seconds behind.
Alex tried to stand. No dice. He was tied to a chair in the living room. He felt a cramp in his right leg and rotated his ankle to ease off on it, getting some blood flowing.
That was the first time he really noticed that he couldn’t feel anything at all in the other leg. He strained against the rope to lean forward and look down. A piece of pale bone was sticking out from his shin, and his ankle was on its sid
e, at a right angle to the rest of his leg. A belt had been fastened tight around his thigh as a tourniquet.
Alex threw up and passed out.
When he came to, he had to go through the whole thing again, closing his eyes and then gradually opening them when the pain faded.
Kara and Milo were standing over him.
Alex couldn’t help but notice that Kara had changed her clothes. Even in his present situation, he let his mind wander through all of the dirty and insulting reasons she might have needed to get changed.
‘I’m sorry about the leg, honey,’ she said. ‘But we dropped you coming down the stairs.’
Milo put his hand up like a schoolboy. ‘I’m not actually sorry.’
‘What do you want?’ Alex said. Well, he tried to. He found that his mouth wasn’t working all that well. His jaw was slow to respond, and a tooth came loose as he spoke, sending pain across the side of his face in waves. The words came out as, ‘Wha woo woo wan?’
‘You mentioned money,’ Kara said.
Alex didn’t respond. Partly out of contempt, but mostly because it was going to hurt too much to try.
‘Was that your plan?’ Kara spoke again. ‘Put away some cash, then fake your death. What came next, were you planning to run away somewhere? Were you even going to tell me?’ She took a step forward and slapped him across the cheek, the one that was already hurting. Alex felt something damp on his lips. ‘You let me think you were dead.’
‘Wnu womb weme wo wave ween whab wubseb,’ Alex said.
‘What?’ Kara leaned in closer. ‘Speak up. You sound drunk.’
You don’t seem to have been that upset, Alex wanted to scream at her. You’ve been fucking this kid behind my back, and you want to make out like I’m the bad guy here?
The anger was followed straight away by a deeper hurt.
This was for us. I wanted you to come with me. I was making us rich.
‘He’s speaking Wookie. I think we broke his jaw last time,’ Milo said.
‘Wast wimb?’
Kara looked into Alex’s eyes, one after another. ‘Oh shit,’ she said. ‘I think we’ve concussed him.’ Then to Alex. ‘You don’t remember, do you?’
‘Why wou woin wis?’
‘Oh honey.’ Kara stroked his cheek. It was a tender touch that only highlighted how violent everything else had been. ‘You ask me that? You, who faked his own death and didn’t even tell me? Who let me believe you were toast, and was going to let me cry, and grieve, and hurt?’
‘Wo won’t wook wad.’
‘I, what? Oh, sad? Well, okay. You got me there. Look, Alex, babe, when was the last time we were good together? I’ve been looking for a way out for a year now, at least. We don’t talk. You don’t kiss me unless you want to screw. When was the last time we just wanted to hang out together?’
‘I wuw wu.’ A tear rolled down Alex’s cheek.
He looked down to close his eyes, because he couldn’t move his arms to wipe the water away.
Alex saw the bone sticking out of his leg again. Pain spread outwards from the wound when he looked at it.
He heaved and passed out.
SIXTY-SEVEN
FERGUS
12:45
I stand outside Alex’s building, and try him on the phone a few times. No answer.
It could be nothing. I want it to be nothing. Maybe he’s in his apartment and hasn’t noticed the phone. Or he’s on his way back. Or . . . he’s been caught by the cops. If Joe had him, I’d know by now, because I’d be in the dock with him.
I’ll break in. The lock is an easy enough electronic job. I’ll figure out which apartment is his, and, if he’s not already there, I’ll wait for him to come back. We’ll have that nice talk about his responsibilities. I work on the lock. People think this type is more secure, but it’s easy when you know how. The soft electronic beep sounds out and the door gives inward.
My phone starts buzzing.
What now?
Can’t people see I’m busy trying to break into some fud’s building?
I ignore it and step into the foyer, but then the phone starts again. I look down at an unknown number on the display, and for a second I’m going to dingy it, but this has been one of those weeks. Best not to mess anything up.
‘Hello?’
‘Do you have a key for that building?’
A female voice. I recognise it straight away. She was on the other end of the phone, in Marxist Martin’s bedroom. This was who Dominic Porter dialled.
I play it calm. ‘What?’
‘Turn around.’
I turn on my heels to look out through the glass door. There’s a black car parked on the other side of the road. Tinted windows. Can’t see inside.
‘Two of my employees are in that car. They’ve filmed you breaking into that building.’
‘I don’t know what you—’
‘Yes, you do. They’ll bring you to me and delete the video. If you’re a good boy.’
What now?
I nod at the car and kill the call. There’s a button on the inside of the door, so it’s much easier to get out. I cross the road and, as I do, the driver’s door opens and a tall guy with a buzz cut and a black coat gets out. One of those thick, puffy jackets favoured by private security guys who want to conceal guns. I have three just like it.
‘Couldn’t you just call me and book an appointment?’ I aim for a vaguely pissed-off tone. Which isn’t all that hard.
The front passenger door opens and another guy gets out. Same taste in clothes, but this one has longer blond hair.
‘Asma Khan doesn’t need appointments,’ Long Hair says.
Shit.
I know the name. Of course I do. I was doing work for the cartel behind MHW long before I came back to Glasgow. I’ve heard the name Asma Khan, and that of her brother, Akhel Khan, for years. And I never planned on having to meet either of them. I don’t know why she wants me, but it can’t be good. I weigh my odds. I can probably take these two if I have to. My adrenaline and endorphins are pumping. As long as I can get to one of them before either pulls a gun, I’ll be okay. But I don’t know how many other people I’d be pissing off.
I nod. Long Hair waves me toward the car. I settle into the backseat as four messages come through from Sam, and they pretty much ruin my day.
TheSamIreland – Hey.
TheSamIreland – So, I know this is really crappy of me
TheSamIreland – But I need to cancel tonight.
TheSamIreland – Sorry xx
Shite.
It’s my fault. I was too pushy. Asking for a second date the night after the first? Who does that? Baws.
They drive me to a bus stop on Argyle Street, right where it joins the pedestrianised Buchanan Street. Long Hair leads the way and Buzz stays in the car, pulling away from the kerb to merge back into traffic before anyone starts to make a scene about him being there.
At the bottom of Buchanan Street, Long Hair stops outside a shoe shop and waves me in. Just before I pass him, he puts a hand out and asks for my phone. When I step back, he promises he’ll return it once I’m done. I hand over my mobile and step inside. Straight away, I know something’s wrong. The shop is empty.
Not completely, of course.
It’s full of shoes.
The staff are standing along the back wall, watching me, and acting like they’re too scared to move.
There are no customers. The place has been cleared. I’ve seen this happen for royalty in London, and I was once in a museum in New York that had to be emptied out so the President could walk in and look at one exhibit. But I’ve never experienced it in Glasgow.
I catch movement in my peripheral vision and an Asian-looking woman steps out from behind the nearest rack. She’s shorter than I expected, about five two. I’m not sure why, but hearing her name in such revered tones over the last few years had made me picture someone taller, broader. She’s wearing baggy jeans and a GAP hoodie. Her hair has blue highlights.
Her eyes are what stand out straight away. They’re uncomfortably piercing. They make her look like she’s staring at you.
‘Fergus.’ She smiles. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you. Come over here.’
I walk over, and she points down at her feet. She’s wearing a pair of tight blue shoes, with high heels and several busy-looking straps.
‘What do you think?’ she says.
Has one of the most powerful criminals in the country invited me here just to shop for shoes?
SIXTY-EIGHT
SAM
12:45
Crap.
Crap.
As far as we knew, Todd Robinson was Paula’s killer.
Hanya pulled the chair over to the door and pressed it below the handle. It wouldn’t hold long, but we might only need a few seconds. I climbed onto the dressing table and eased the window the rest of the way open, then lowered myself out.
We were on the ground floor, so it wasn’t far to go before my feet hit the grass. I turned back and helped Hanya as she climbed down. Just as her feet hit the turf, we heard someone try and open the door. The attempt was followed by a grunt.
‘There isn’t a lock,’ we heard Sarah say.
The door shook again. This time the chair almost gave.
Hanya and I crossed the yard and climbed the low metal railing onto the street. We ran to the next street over and her car. ‘Meet you on the other side of Belahouston Park,’ she said sliding behind the wheel.
I unchained my bike and took off after her.
Belahouston is a large public park. It was only a couple of hundred yards away from where we’d been parked, but Hanya was going to have to drive around it, and stop at traffic lights.
On the bike, I cut straight through the park, and got to the other side a couple of minutes ahead of her. I leaned against the railing at the small car park off Mosspark Boulevard, and pulled my phone out while I waited. I’d been thinking about my second date with Fergus all morning. With everything else going on, I needed to cancel.
TheSamIreland – Hey.
TheSamIreland – So, I know this is really crappy of me