The Sudden Arrival of Violence

by Malcolm Mackay

  ‘You know they arrested Potty Cruickshank,’ he says.

  ‘Good,’ Young’s saying with no interest. He heard this news a week ago. Cruickshank’s another loan-shark. Another scumbag. One of the very worst. No friend to the Jamieson organization.

  ‘I hear that Cruickshank has Paul Greig in his pocket. Then I hear that the evidence to arrest him can only have come from Greig.’

  Young’s looking across the room. Frowning. ‘I know not to trust Greig. He’s not on anyone’s side. Cruickshank should have known that. One of the good things about Shug trusting him. Greig’s only on his own side. He still filters things back to his superiors. It’s why they put up with him.’

  Jamieson’s sighing. They shouldn’t be anywhere near the likes of Greig. Too much risk.

  The phone’s ringing. Jamieson looks at the display. Looks across to Young and nods his head. This is the call he’s been waiting for. As Jamieson says hello, Young’s getting up to leave. He could stay and listen, just doesn’t see the need. Jamieson will tell him everything he needs to know about the conversation. In the meantime there are other things to get along with. Meetings to arrange. There’s a little part of him, a tiny part, that wishes he could do some of the dirty work. Young thinks about men like Calum, and Frank MacLeod. Okay, Frank was a traitor. Nothing to be envious about there. But the life he lived. The thrills he had. Something you just can’t get by making phone calls. The sort of thrill that Calum MacLean is getting right now. That’s another one he’ll have to keep an eye on. Question marks about Calum’s commitment. Still. Shit, he likes a challenge, but it used to be easier than this.

  Young has a little office downstairs that he almost never uses. The fact that it’s downstairs is one reason. The fact that it isn’t soundproofed is another. The racket tonight. Jesus, you can’t hear yourself think! Sounds like someone battering a dog with a bag of spanners. And they call it music. He was going to make a call, but now he won’t bother. Now he’s just killing ten minutes. Waiting until he knows that Jamieson’s finished on the phone. It irks a little. Just a little. Young does so much work to set these things up; Jamieson handles the key call. That means he gets all the credit for this. Not a problem. Not really. Young’s used to it. It’s fine, it’s just–it would be nice for him to be able to close out a job, not just plan it. Less than ten minutes. Fuck it, this music is giving him a headache. He’s going back upstairs. Through the snooker room and along the corridor to Jamieson’s office. Inside, and seeing that Jamieson’s finished his call. Young gives him a questioning nod.

  ‘Everything’s on,’ Jamieson’s saying. ‘As expected.’

  7

  He didn’t tell her what it was, but he didn’t need to. He was scared of the job.

  ‘If you don’t think you can do it, then tell them,’ she said to him last night, but Kenny just shook his head.

  ‘It’s not that I can’t do it. I can. It’s a driving job. Just another driving job. Really, don’t worry about it. It’s a bit different from what I’m used to, that’s all. Just a different sort of driving job. As long as I’m careful…’ he trailed off. ‘And I won’t be alone; I’ll be with good people.’ He said that as if he meant it. As if he was confident of the quality of his companions, whoever they would be.

  Deana didn’t say anything else about it. Now she wishes she had, no matter how uncomfortable the subsequent conversation would have been.

  It was late, that’s her excuse. Kenny came back from the club at close to midnight. She was already in bed; he was undressing as he told her that he had a big job tomorrow, and then a couple of days off afterwards. He never explained why he was getting a couple of days off. He hinted that it was because the job was so big. Maybe the sort of thing that requires you to keep your head down. He’d never had anything like that before. Not in his life. She knows him well enough to know he’ll struggle. He doesn’t cope well under pressure; it’s why she’s always been able to dominate the relationship. Now it’s twenty-four hours later. She’s lying in bed again, looking at the clock. Half past midnight. He told her he’d be home by eleven. Probably earlier. He’s been late before, plenty of times. Much later than this. But this feels different, and she thinks she knows why.

  Deana encouraged Kenny to go to the police. It was the right thing to do. No matter what’s happened, it was the right thing to do. He told her everything. Too much. If he’d kept some of his worries to himself, then he’d never have set up the meeting with DI Fisher. Kenny didn’t have the guts to do it himself. He needed a push, so Deana pushed. He was worried about Jamieson taking so long to deal with Shug Francis. Worried it was a sign of weakness. If Jamieson’s organization was picked apart, where would that leave Kenny? He’s just a driver, nothing else. Ten a penny. Whoever took over Jamieson’s patch wouldn’t need him, they’d have plenty of drivers of their own. He’d have no work. Worse still, no protection. Sure, people take over an organization and want to keep the old employees happy. They keep as many as possible on the books. They offer protection. But that generosity is for people who matter. It rarely finds its way down the food chain to drivers.

  Kenny was worried sick. Convinced that Jamieson was tripping over too many small distractions. Sure that Shug was getting the upper hand, or at least showing others how vulnerable Jamieson really was. If Shug didn’t get him, then someone else soon would. He told Deana all this, and she told him what to do. Go to the police. Give them little bits of information–nothing that can incriminate Kenny. In exchange they offer you a little protection, if Jamieson’s world implodes. Better than nothing. Only safety net you can get. So he set up the meeting, went and saw the cop. Three times now. It seemed easy. Seemed to go well. There was no suggestion that anyone had found out. He was actually getting used to being a grass. Losing his fear of it.

  Now this job. Something that unnerved him. Something out of the blue. You might say she’s reading too much into it, but it’s past two o’clock in the morning now, and he’s still not home. It was obviously something big, this job. Now much as she loves Kenny–in a comfortable, unfaithful sort of way–she knows he’s not a man for the big occasion. Hard to believe that people as smart as Peter Jamieson and John Young don’t know it, too. But they sent him. Desperation? Could be, but Kenny seemed to think they were getting on top of things. He kept suggesting the organization was back on track. No whiff of weakness to be had. So they deliberately sent him on a job they knew he wasn’t the best person for. Well, that’s not like them at all. Kenny’s come home on umpteen occasions and told her how careful they are about recruitment. Told her tales of picking up new employees. Tales of the lengths that are gone to, making sure the right person does the right job. They don’t suddenly get sloppy.

  Half past two and Kenny’s still not home. Deana’s out of bed and downstairs. Just walking back and forth in the living room. Going over to the window and sitting on the ledge, looking out into the street. Waiting for a car to pull up. Beginning to worry about what car it will be. Let’s say for a minute that this wasn’t Jamieson setting Kenny up. That this wasn’t his punishment for talking to the police. Let’s say instead that they went along on this job, and something’s gone wrong. They’ve been caught. Maybe the car that pulls up at the house will be a police car. Come to tell her that Kenny’s buried under a mountain of shit, and would she mind coming to the station to discuss what she knows about his life. Not beyond the realms of possibility. Put that on the back burner for now. For now, the fear is that Jamieson knows, and tonight was punishment time.

  She’s gone back to bed. Calmed down a little. So he’s late. Very late. That’s not a first, now is it? He’s been late plenty of times. This is a bigger job than usual. A more intense challenge. Maybe there’s a very different aftermath to these things. If Kenny was involved in something big, then it’s fair to assume that the clean-up will be bigger, too. She’s convinced herself, at ten past three in the morning, that this is just the natural consequence of a bigger job. There are women
who go through this every night. Women tied to men who do big jobs on a regular basis. Deana’s met a few of them over the years. Some of them look like they don’t have a care in the world. Some look exhausted. That’s how she tells the difference between the ones who really love their men and the ones who don’t.

  Kenny’s not the first man in the business that she’s been in a relationship with, but most of the others were down the chain, too. Low-rank people of no consequence, the sort who don’t get big jobs. She’s been with a couple of guys higher up, but only briefly. One was a long time ago, when she was a teenager. It was a fun thing for both of them; went nowhere. The other was since she met Kenny. Since they moved in together. Theirs is a curious sort of relationship. Each trusts the other to be untrustworthy. Each knows the other isn’t entirely faithful, but they care about each other’s feelings. There’s nothing open about it. They have no kids, a decent income and a good time together. They’ve come to love each other. It’s not the sort of love that people get giddy about, just the type that lasts.

  She met a guy outside a restaurant. She’d been out with friends; she was calling a taxi to get home. Kenny was working, probably late. This guy approached and asked her if he could give her a lift. Nice-looking guy, a little younger than Deana, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. She was thirty-three then, thirty-four now. This guy was mid- to late twenties, could have passed for younger. She’d seen him before. He’d seen her. Something relating to Kenny’s work. Something at the club, she thought. Or maybe somewhere else. His name was Alan Bavidge. He worked for a man called Billy Patterson, a man with a growing reputation. Patterson has an organization of his own, but it deals in the murky end of things. He’s managed to grow in the shadows, not stepping on toes. Stayed out of most parts of the drug trade. His business revolves around moneylending and the security business. Being with Bavidge was an eye-opener for Deana.

  She spent five weeks with him. Sweet, handsome guy, smart too. She worked him around Kenny. He was fun, but she knew Alan wouldn’t last. Five weeks together, and he stood her up four times. All because of the work he did. He was high up in Patterson’s organization. He never told her exactly what he did, he wasn’t a talker like Kenny, but she’s good enough at maths to put two and two together. Alan did nasty things, no doubt. Beatings–maybe more. At first she was annoyed about being stood up, but his apologies were genuine. He had a tense and weary look when he eventually showed up, which you don’t get just because you’re late. He’d been working. He would keep that tension for hours, sometimes days. They went their separate ways. Kenny was getting irksome; he’d figured someone else was on his scene. Neither she nor Alan was committed to the relationship. They parted on good terms. Alan wasn’t the sort of man anyone could have a relationship with. Too many nights standing at the living-room window, wondering if he would make it home that night.

  Strange thing was, when she found out Alan was dead she didn’t feel anything. Not sad, not emotional in any way. It always seemed inevitable. He was the sort of man who lived to die young. Killed by someone as yet unknown. His body found in an alleyway behind a row of shops. A place he had no business being in. Who knows what he suffered? What he was suffering even when she was with him. She found it hard to care. Alan knew what he was involved in. He knew the risks and he faced them head-on. That was the impression she had of him.

  Kenny is the total opposite. Only vaguely aware of the dangers, unwilling to face them. Such a good man. She can’t bear to think of him suffering. Another glance at the clock. Ten to four. Come on, Kenny, where the hell are you? She’s drifting off to sleep. She’s waking with a start now. Looking at the clock. Five past eight and Kenny’s still not home.

  8

  Calum’s taking almost nothing. Purposely leaving anything they would expect him to take. He has to give them doubt. They have to believe that he might have died last night, same as Kenny and the moneyman. Maybe something went wrong, and all three of them are lying dead in a forest somewhere. That thought will scare the crap out of them. They’ll go looking for the body. Good. Look for something you can never find. That’ll prove a useful distraction for Calum. He wants Jamieson and Young to have as many distractions as possible. The second they suspect what he’s actually up to, they will hunt him down like a dog. He will become their absolute priority, at the expense of all other things. He has to be long gone by then.

  He won’t be notifying anyone that he’s leaving the flat. That’s obvious. A man who’s possibly died the previous night doesn’t then notify people of his departure. He will disappear. Not just from Young and Jamieson, but from everyone. Well, not quite everyone, because he needs a little help here. Can’t do this alone. Things have to be organized, and quickly. The first is the departure from the flat. He has to show them what they expect to see. Let’s make no bones about it: they will come round to the flat. Calum has no doubt that they have a spare key. They’ve never told him they do, but Jamieson provided the flat. They won’t own it–they’re smarter than that. They don’t want people knowing that Calum’s their employee, so they won’t do anything as crass as put him in their own property. Still, they’ll have taken every precaution. After all, they had a key to Frank MacLeod’s house when they sent Calum to kill him. His own predecessor. The man he’s trying to avoid becoming.

  They’ll expect him to have left his mobile behind, so that’s been untouched since he put it on the kitchen table last night. He’ll leave it where it is. He won’t buy a new one until he’s out of the city. His wallet he’s leaving on the counter in the kitchen. Don’t pile all your belongings up beside one another–makes it look like you’ve left them to be found. Put them where others would expect to find them. A wallet tossed casually onto the counter. The mobile checked for messages before he left, placed on the table, ready for him to check again on his return. Living up to their expectations. His passport is in the drawer of the desk in the living room. Won’t take them long to find that. His driver’s licence is there with it, his cheque book too. The driver’s licence is the only one he had to stop and think about. He’ll be getting a new one anyway, but where would they expect it to be? They might think he would have it in his car. No. Maybe someone with lower standards, but not Calum. They know he wouldn’t have it anywhere near him on the night of a job. Leave it where it is.

  He’s been thinking about running for weeks. Months, truthfully, but it was an idle thought to begin with. Then it became a plan. Not a lot he could do in advance. Not when he didn’t know when the chance would come. It’s here now. One thing he has prepared are clothes. Not much, but he has what he needs. Clothes and a bag. Went out and bought them with cash. Not all at once. A few different shops, over the course of a week. Assume that Jamieson’s organization will be able to access your bank details. If they see you were spending money in clothes shops in advance of disappearing, they might start to wonder. Why does a fellow who rarely buys new clothes suddenly splurge? A few items of clothing and a bag, hidden in the bottom of his wardrobe. Never worn before, ready for departure.

  He’s done the same thing with money. He won’t empty his account. Leave something there, just in case Jamieson has access. So you take out a little more than you need each time you go to a cash machine. You need fifty quid, so you take out a hundred. He’s been doing that for five weeks now. It’s not a perfect system. More money than usual goes out, and someone with a sharp eye will spot it. The hope is that no one with a sharp eye will look. Hope that Young and Jamieson will only glance at his account and see that there’s still plenty of money there. No large transfer of money. If they don’t look for a spending pattern, they won’t see anything of note. So he has more than six hundred and fifty pounds in a wad, wrapped in three elastic bands. That’s going into the bottom of the bag.

  It’s a funny feeling when you know you’re leaving a place for the last time. He never had the chance to feel this way about his old flat. That one he left in a hurry, after Shug Francis sent Glen Davidson r
ound to stab him in the night. Calum is still very much alive. Glen Davidson is not. He breathed his last on the kitchen floor of Calum’s old flat. A place that felt like home. And then he could never go back. He and George got rid of the body, but you can’t take the risk of returning. You can’t go back to a place where you killed a man. If that place happens to be your home, then you never go home. He’d lived in that flat for eight years. He knew every little piece of it and felt so comfortable there. He had his routines. Everything was in its rightful place. The last time he left it, he left with both hands slashed open. He had dishcloths wrapped round them, trying to carry his share of the weight as he and George Daly took Davidson’s body down to the van. He never went back. This is different. No sense of leaving home. Just leaving a flat. Not coming back, and wouldn’t care to, even if he had the option, thank you very much.

  He has the bag of new clothing and nothing else. Well, the clothes he was wearing last night, but he needs to ditch those. And the gun. That’s still in the inside pocket of his coat. He needs to ditch that, too. He knows it. Should have done it sooner. Unprofessional to have it so long after using it. It’s a comfort, though. In the wake of any job you have the threat of arrest. That’s something he’s accustomed to, after ten years of killing people for a living. That threat is old hat. There’s a new one this time, never before experienced. The threat of his own employers. They aren’t going to arrest him. They aren’t going to make sure he has a lawyer present at the time of punishment. They’re going to do what they do to anyone who tries to walk away without permission. Anyone who knows too much. They’ll put a bullet in him. The gun’s comforting, but too much of a risk. He’ll find a random bin and ditch it. Usually he would return it to the person he bought it from and get some of his money back, but no one must know that he’s alive.