Hell To Pay (Crime Files Book 1)

by Jenny Thomson

  McNab raised a well-plucked eyebrow. He’d thought the girl was flying solo. Having someone else in the mix, an unknown quantity, complicated things.

  McGregor continued. “It was somebody they’d never seen before, and the guy was pretty handy.”

  The vein in his forehead throbbed. This was all he bloody needed, some bird making a mug out of him.

  No way was that happening.

  “Do we know who he was?”

  McGregor shook his head.

  The glass McNab was holding shattered in his hand, cutting into his flesh, but he felt no pain. He was more upset about the blood dripping onto the expensive carpet and wasting his good whisky.

  “I want you to handle this, Jim. Find the bitch and her mystery man, and this time I don’t want any dots left to connect. The dead cannae talk.”

  McGregor, who hadn’t even flinched when he’d broken the glass, nodded. “Aye, boss.”

  McNab tapped his nose. “Mind and find out what they know first. By whatever means.” McGregor was his muscle, he couldn’t expect him to think as well. “And, Jim, handle it personally.”

  There was a glint in McGregor’s dead eyes. The man was no doubt looking forward to getting out his torture tools. Nobody came up with more creative uses for power tools than this man.

  “And there’ll be a nice wee bonus in it for you too, Jim.”

  The guy almost cracked a smile, which would have made him look even more sinister.

  After McGregor left, McNab went into the bedroom, where a young woman with long brown hair was coked out of her skull and lying naked on top of the bed, her long, languid limbs stretched out as though she was posing for a Pirelli calendar.

  “Hey, bitch,” he said, digging into his pocket and producing a wad of notes. “Get the fuck out. We’re done.”

  He threw the cash at her as she stared up at him with glassy eyes, unblinking. When she showed no signs of budging, he stooped down, picked up her shoes, and hurled them at her. One hit her squarely in the face, and she yelped like a kicked dog.

  “Didn’t you hear me? Fuck off.”

  He left her mechanically retrieving her clothes and headed for a shower. He needed to wash that filthy wee whore off him.

  Even in the shower, with the heat up full, he couldn’t relax. He still didn’t have the gun, and that worried him. After he’d had that Kerr couple offed, he’d figured it must be in their garden, but they’d dug it up and found heehaw. What if the girl or the guy with her had it? They could use it to blackmail him or take it to the cops. He couldn’t let that happen. He’d worked far too hard to get where he was.

  Now there were two people on his hit list. He needed to find out who the guy was, so the first thing he did was phone his police contact.

  Chapter 30

  “I know where the gun is.” Jubilation spread across my face. “There’s one place they wouldn’t have known about. The police or McNab. My grandpa had an allotment. It was never put in my dad’s name because they’d have charged him rent. The allotments were free to war veterans.”

  I’d piqued Tommy’s interest. “Are you sure it’s there?”

  “There’s nothing to lose by looking.”

  That’s how we came to be at my grandpa’s allotment in the jaws of night, with only flashlights to light our way, pointed downwards so nobody would spot us—we couldn’t risk going there during the day in case the gun was there and someone saw us dig it up.

  The allotments were small plots of unused land with sheds, set aside for people to grow fruit and veg in towns and cities. As a child, I remember coming here with Shug and my grandpa, competing to see who could get the most potatoes, carrots, and turnips out of the ground. We’d have our own individual buckets to drop them into, but every so often when the other’s back was turned, we’d pinch ones out of each other’s pails. Those were happy days.

  Tonight we were there on a more gruesome task.

  “We should try over here, first,” I say, spade in my hand. ‘That’s where he used to grow his potatoes.”

  Grandpa’s potatoes tasted amazing, but then everything tasted better when you grew it yourself.

  A single tear rolls down my cheek, and because I have the flashlight in one hand and the spade in the other, I can’t wipe it away. So I turn my back to Tommy, making sure he can’t see. If he does, he’s too much of gentleman to say anything, and I’m grateful for that.

  I tell him I’ll dig if he holds the flashlight.

  He mutters a reply.

  “What, you thought I’d be the wee woman and stand by as the man did the digging?” My tone’s light, but I make sure I get my point across.

  Beside me, Tommy chuckles, and I imagine his eyes sparkling.

  Digging is hard work, but I refuse to let him see me flagging and dig like a madwoman—even although my heart is fit to burst and my breathing’s heavy.

  I’m rewarded when my spade strikes a hard object. I take my flashlight out of my coat pocket so we can both see what we’ve found. All the time I’m praying it’s not some kind of time capsule.

  Kneeling down, my gloved hand closes in on a wooden box. To my eyes, it looks big enough to hold a gun. It’s still half-buried, so I use my hands to clean the rest of the dirt away.

  “It’s heavy,” I say.

  “Here, let me get it,” Tommy says.

  This time I don’t object to him helping. It’s when he’s laying the box down on the ground that I realize there’s a keyhole.

  “Don’t worry,” Tommy says. “I’ve got this covered.”

  He rummages around in his pockets, and something steel gleams in the darkness. “My picks. Handy for getting into places. Can you point your flashlight at me so I can see what I’m dealing with?”

  I oblige and watch captivated as he nimbly tries the various picks. When the box springs open, I gasp. Am I finally going to see what this has all been about?

  “Do you want to see what’s inside?”

  He’s giving me the first chance, and I appreciate it, but my hands are shaking so much I’m scared that I’ll drop the box and we’ll end up scrambling about in the dirt trying to find whatever’s inside.

  “No, you do it.”

  He lifts up the lid and picks up something covered by a piece of cloth. He lays it down on the ground as if it’s a baby.

  “We’ve got it,” he exclaims as he unwraps a gun.

  “This is where you can step aside,” I say. “You saved me and I’m grateful. But after what he did to me and my family, I think I’ve got first dibs on Sandy McNab.”

  My words sound small in the dark.

  “You stupid, sexy, psycho bitch. The Sandy McNabs of this world will chew you up and spit you out. You can’t do this alone.” There’s anger in Tommy’s voice.

  “You can take the gun,” I say.” Take it to the police. Get justice for your brother.”

  This is his chance to get out of this in one piece; to get on with his life. Part of me wants him to take it, for him to go, because then I’ll be alone again, with nobody to worry about, to be responsible for.

  That will lift a weight off my shoulders. Won’t it?

  Tommy takes a deep breath. “Nah, I’ll be sticking around. There’s never a dull minute with you, Nancy.”

  The tension in my shoulders goes. “That’s what I hoped you’d say.”

  I hold out my hand for him to shake, but instead he kisses it.

  “Hoi,” I yelp, mock outrage on my face.

  “Let’s shake on it, partner.”

  And we do.

  Chapter 31

  “Now we need to go after McNab, because if someone with his pull is determined to take you out of the picture, he will. Unless you kill him first.” Tommy’s face is serious.

  “We could use the gun to lure him to a meet.”

  We’re back at his place discussing the best way to get to McNab. But Tommy’s not buying my idea. “The guy’s a complete and utter psycho and he’s not stupid. If you tell him
you have that gun, he’ll take you out. Take both of us out. Hey, he might even get the police to do it for him; say we’re armed and dangerous. Get them to call out the armed-response boys.”

  He pauses to brush a piece of fluff off his arm. “We need a plan that he won’t see coming. Something smart.”

  “So how do we get to him, then?” I say. “It’s not as if we can saunter into his office and blow his brains out. Guy’s probably always surrounded by heavies. And I don’t know about you, but I want revenge, but that doesn’t mean I want to end up sewing mailbags for the rest of my days.”

  Tommy hoots with laughter. “Sewing mailbags. Is that what you really think prisoners do all day?”

  “Aye,” I say, “when they’re not helping the governor defraud the prison system and escaping in his shoes.”

  We’re bantering away as Tommy pulls on his clothes whilst I lie in bed, propping myself up with one arm so I can take in the view. I’ve pulled the cover over my breasts; Tommy hasn’t commented on my scars, but that doesn’t mean I want them on show. To me they’re not only ugly, they’re a reminder of what was done to me.

  I grin up at him. “We need to find a way of getting him on his own, away from his flunkies.”

  He leans over the bed and kisses me on the nose. Inhaling the heady scent of his masculinity, I almost grab his arm and drag him back to bed. For the first time since that awful night, my mind isn’t focused solely on revenge.

  “Any suggestions, Lady Godiva, or are you just going to just lie there flaunting your wares? And hey, stop covering your war wounds. I showed you mine.”

  He had a scar on his shoulder about the size of a Ping-Pong ball from where he’d been hit by shards of glass from a roadside bomb in Iraq.

  “Well, Nance. You’re an ideas gal. Let’s hear some ideas.”

  Distracted by the little dimple where his back and butt meet as he leans down to tie his shoes and his T-shirt rides up, I don’t answer right away. Then a peach of an idea forms in my brain.

  “He’s a businessman, right?”

  I’d done some research on Tommy’s laptop. In recent years, McNab has hidden behind a veneer of respectability. He’s used his ill-gotten gains and invested them in property. He is now the proud owner of one of the biggest property companies in the country. He regularly donates money to charity and hobnobs with TV stars, footballers, and local bigwigs.

  “We’ll put some business his way. Give him an offer he can’t refuse.”

  Tommy gives me the thumbs-up. “In this case, greed is good.”

  Our plan is simple. We’re going to tell McNab we own a piece of land the country’s largest supermarket chain had earmarked as their preferred location for their new flagship store. They’re willing to pay millions for the right location. But there is one major blip on our road to riches and only he can help. We need his particular brand of persuasiveness to get the owners of the pigeon lofts to sell the scrap of land their lofts stand on. The land had been gifted to them by the council and was sitting smack-bang in the middle of the site. So far, they’ve refused to sell.

  We make an appointment to see him at his office. Posing as Tommy’s PA, I phone from our sham offices in St. Vincent Street—we have to make it appear as though we’re legit, so we’ve rented it for the week on the off chance he’d want to meet there. McNab didn’t get where he was today by not being careful, though he hadn’t exercised much diligence when he’d left the gun at the home of his mistress. But then, he wouldn’t the first man to stop thinking the second he dropped his trousers.

  As insurance, we’ve put the gun in a safe place so that if McNab rumbles us, we’ve got something to bargain with.

  Chapter 32

  A day later, we were getting ready to meet McNab. The minute he’d heard the phrase “big-money property deal,” he’d granted us an audience. As usual, I’m playing dress-up, but this is my worst outfit yet. So I do what I always do when I feel uncomfortable—I deflect attention onto someone else. In this case, Tommy.

  “Crikey, you look like an accountant.”

  And he did in a charcoal-gray suit, complete with a brown tie, white shirt, and studious glasses. He’d have gone for a designer suit, but we wanted him to look like a man you could trust. A stable, logical type; an accountant.

  He gives me an appraising glance. “And I’m so glad you brought along your sexy secretary gear.”

  “I think we’re even,” I say, because the outfit I’m wearing is anything but sexy.

  My hair’s piled so high in a bun, the Children of the Corn should be hiding in it. I’m wearing horn-rimmed spectacles and a woolen skirt suit that could have come straight from the wardrobe of my old teacher, Mrs. Clocherty. She was a mean old cow. Now when I peer at myself in the mirror, that woman stares back at me. The only things missing are the pointy chin and mean eyes.

  Tommy catches me frowning. “Hey, I do mean you look sexy. McNab will be so distracted by you, he’ll fall for whatever line I’m spinning him.”

  I tap my head. “Aye, because he’ll think I resemble one of his old teachers.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Nancy. You’d look hot in anything.”

  There’s something about his eyes that makes me believe what he’s saying even when it’s nonsense. I hate that when it happens, because ultimately most men let you down. Look at Shug and Michael.

  There’s a green Jaguar parked outside his building and no sign of his car. My stomach clenches, and I’m worried my breakfast is going to end up splattered all over my shoes.

  McNab must be on to us.

  Any second now, the heavy mob will appear and we’ll be dragged into the car and end up in a scene from The Long Good Friday.

  “Someone’s nicked your car.” My voice is shrill.

  Tommy places his hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay. I shifted it last night. A pal had room in his garage.”

  My panic subsides. McNab hasn’t tracked us down.

  Tommy carries on talking. “We need to turn up in style to meet McNab. Make it look as though I’m dripping in money. We’ve even got a chauffeur.”

  Tommy doffs an imaginary hat at the man behind the wheel. “That’s Eric. He works as some council bigwig’s driver. His boss is away on a taxpayer-funded junket to New York, so he has full run of the car. Don’t worry. We can trust him.”

  So says the man I hardly know about a man I also don’t know—sex doesn’t count. But we don’t have time for a change of plan. We’re due at McNab’s offices at noon and it’s already gone half past eleven.

  Climbing into the car, I nod towards Eric, a small man with a moustache and face crafted out of granite.

  McNab’s offices are situated in a modern glass-fronted building, which surprises me. I’d envisioned them as being in a traditional stone building with a darkened basement, handy for torturing his enemies.

  The suit McNab wears is luxury cashmere, but his accent is pure Glasgow East End. He couldn’t hide it no matter how much effort he put into softening the vowels.

  Tall and trim with jet-black hair that you almost couldn’t tell came out a bottle, he looks nothing like your stereotypical gangland boss from the tips of his alligator-skin shoes to his manicured fingernails. McNab throws his money around to gain respectability, and it’s starting to make people forget where his money came from. Seeing him in person, it was easy to see why.

  He doesn’t acknowledge me as we’re escorted into his office by his PA, a sturdy woman of indeterminate age with a brusque and officious manner and home-dye-job hair that made me want to drag her off to the nearest salon and get it professionally done.

  Before we’d even got this far, we’d been searched and scanned by a gruff security man in a bright blue uniform and his deputy as a man with a scar down one cheek and a roadmap of veins on his nose watched over them.

  My heart’s going like the clappers as I take one of the chairs across from McNab’s oak desk, suppressing a sarcastic laugh when I clap eyes on the Rolodex on hi
s desk, next to his brass penholder. Has he got a list of thugs under T, or maybe now he moves in the higher echelons of society the arm breakers come under H for housekeeping? I wonder if he keeps the thumbscrews under his blotter. Keeping my mind occupied is the only way I can stop myself from launching myself at the bastard and smashing his face against his ornate desk until his bones crack.

  Tommy casts a sharp glance in my direction, and balancing my notepad on my knee, I start writing. It probably looks like I’m taking down notes of the meeting, but what I’m really doing is doodling because I need something to do with my hands.

  McNab leans back in his chair. “I believe you have a business proposition for me?” Despite all the fancy dinners he attends, there’s barely an ounce of fat on his frame.

  Tommy nods (or Thomas Laidlaw as he’s calling himself) and gives him the spiel. He’s a smooth operator, and I can’t help wondering that if he’s this good a liar, he could be deceiving me.

  When Tommy’s finished, McNab stretches his arms behind his back and draws a deep breath. “Can’t you tell these pigeon fanciers that the dust and noise will scare off their birds? That’ll make them see sense. Frankly, I don’t know what you need me for.”

  When Tommy answers there’s steel in his voice. “You have certain skills, Mr. McNab; ones that we need to ensure the land deal goes through without a hitch. Besides, the store chain will only consider the site if the whole parcel of land is available.”

  McNab licks his lips, then swings back in his chair. “And what would my consultancy fee be for this assistance?”

  Tommy doesn’t take any time to think about it. “Half of what I get for the land. To give you an idea, when this company built their last store in a similar area, the land cost them a cool five million.”

  McNab whistles through his teeth. His demeanor changes, and he addresses me for the first time. “Get the fuck out of here.”

  Jumping up, I go to leave, my notepad almost spilling out of my hands, which would have been disastrous because it’s covered in doodles, including a very graphic cartoon of McNab being stabbed in the groin by the cartoon version of me.