The Sudden Arrival of Violence

by Malcolm Mackay

  She’s waiting for something more. He’s told her what he thought was going to happen, and that’s no practical use to her. She needs him to tell her what he’s going to do next.

  ‘I think you’ll be safe,’ he’s saying to her. ‘If they went for Kenny, then it was to get at us. You have no part to play in that.’ It feels like he’s telling her what he thinks she wants to hear. That’s what it’s supposed to feel like. Now the hook. ‘You can rest assured, Deana, we’ll provide you with any protection you feel you need. And we will not let this go unpunished. We will strike back.’

  This is what she came here to hear. Young knows it. He played his part, now he’s delivering the words that will keep her happy.

  ‘If you say I won’t be a target, then I don’t need protection,’ she’s saying. ‘But I want to know that you will find out what happened. I want you to keep me informed about what you’re doing. You owe Kenny that much.’

  Thank the good Lord for Jamieson’s lunch meeting. The first importer they’ve ever met who thought these things were fashionable and appropriate. If not for him, Jamieson would have been here to hear that last comment. He would almost certainly not have reacted the way Young’s reacting right now. Nodding stiffly. ‘You’re right,’ he’s saying. It sounds to him like he managed to get the words out without seeming bitter. The idea that they owe that traitorous bastard anything is an insult. But he’s playing a part. Playing it well. So he keeps playing. ‘We’re already doing things to put a stop to Shug Francis–that goes without saying. We will get him. And we will make sure he knows that some of it’s for Kenny.’

  She’s nodding. ‘When will I hear from you?’

  ‘Well,’ he’s saying, puffing out his cheeks. ‘I’ll have to speak to Peter. We have Kenny’s number, so if we can reach you there, we’ll be in touch.’

  Buying a little time. He wants to use Deana Burke as profitably as possible. That’ll take some thought. Some discussion. He’s showing her to the door.

  ‘Hard to believe,’ he’s saying. ‘Poor Kenny. We’ll try and find out, you know, where it happened. Where he is now. If you want to know, we’ll tell you. If not, well, that’s up to you.’

  ‘I’d like to know,’ she’s saying. ‘And I want to be kept informed. That’s not an idle request, Mr Young. If I’m not kept involved, I will be back.’

  ‘Of course,’ Young’s nodding. ‘Your loss is much greater than ours, I understand that. I’ll make sure you’re very much a part of this.’

  She’s gone, thank God. Time to sit and think. Nate Colgan played his part well. No surprise there. She’s convinced it’s Shug. If she speaks to Fisher again, it’ll be with the right message. Oh, this could work out very nicely. The little challenges you don’t expect. How you handle them is everything.

  20

  Been drinking for a while now. It’s given him clarity. Shug isn’t much of a drinker, it tends not to help, but this is different. Today it’s settled him. He’s been thinking about Fizzy and nothing else. Fizzy has become a danger. He doesn’t want to be a part of this. He made that clear. So he’s a dead-weight. If he’s not willing to be a part of this, then he’s just a guy who knows too much. A guy who isn’t contributing. You can’t have people who don’t contribute. You sure as hell can’t have them at senior level. He could offer Fizzy a pay-off, but that would look weak. Fizzy would probably turn it down. Even with a pay-off, he’d be on the outside. It doesn’t remove the danger, just pushes it further away. That’s not enough. Fizzy should be a friend. But he doesn’t seem to want that any more. Well, if he doesn’t want to be a friend, he becomes an enemy. Fizzy has no one but himself to blame for that.

  Shug’s finishing off the last of the half-bottle and slumping back in the couch. Plotting the next move.

  The easy thing to do would be to call up Don Park. He would organize everything, make it all work. But it would look weak. Would look like Shug can’t handle this himself. It’s an internal matter. Would be different if he was making a move against someone from another organization. But he’s not. He’s moving against one of his own. He ought to be able to handle that by himself. Ought to be able to clean up his own shit. He would consider MacArthur weak if he couldn’t handle his own people. So Shug will do it himself. Damned right he will. Feeling pretty good about it, actually. This is a chance to make a clean break with the past. Get rid of one of the small-time thinkers who held him back for so long. Most of all, it’s the chance to show Alex MacArthur that he can handle this sort of thing himself. Organize it. Get it done quickly. Then be nonchalant about it. Let MacArthur think that it’s no big deal to him. That’ll make a good impression.

  Picking up the phone. Calling Shaun Hutton, his gunman. See, that’s something else that’ll impress MacArthur–the fact that he has a quality gunman of his own. Everyone wants one of them. So he’s carefully calling Hutton. Hutton answering, saying hello.

  ‘Shaun, it’s Shug, come round to the house, right away.’ Picked his words carefully, his tone even more so. Doesn’t realize how slow he was talking. Doesn’t realize that he’s obviously the wrong side of a bottle. Now he’s slumping back and thinking about the job. Shouldn’t be hard to hit Fizzy. Get him at his house. It’ll need a burial. Yeah, make him disappear. No need to use it to send a message. Should be easy. Work out nice and neat. As long as Hutton does a proper job, then this is a fast way to make a good impression.

  But now he’s thinking about Fizzy. All the things they did together. The friendship they had. Known Fizzy longer than he’s known his own wife. Been through everything with him. Truth is, Fizzy knows more about Shug than Elaine does. Fizzy’s been there through the worst of times. Helped Shug so much. Did so much tough work that nobody else in their right mind would have done. It was often Fizzy who did the riskiest stuff, when you think about it. Fizzy who went and had meetings with garage owners down south. Persuaded them to do deals with the car-ring. That took a lot of guts. Took a lot of loyalty. It was Fizzy taking the biggest risk, Shug getting the biggest reward. Man, there were some good times there too. Some real fun, messing around with the cars. It was a good little group they had, in the old days. That group’s dissolving anyway. It’s mostly just been Shug and Fizzy in the last few months. Now it’s just Shug. The natural evolution of the business.

  The doorbell ringing. Someone coming along the corridor. The big frame of Shaun Hutton coming through the door. Big lad, tall and broad. Too big to be a gunman, Shug’s thinking. A gunman’s supposed to be silent and blend into the background. Never mind.

  ‘Come in, sit down. I have a job for you. I need to get it done right away.’

  Hutton’s sitting on the desk chair opposite the couch. Nodding to Shug. ‘Who’s the job?’

  ‘Fizzy.’ Said with more force than he intended. Trying to make it sound like he’s being decisive and that the personal relationship doesn’t matter to him. ‘I want Fizzy gone. He’s on the outside now, and he’s dangerous. Might make moves against us. It needs doing. Get it done quick. Make it a clean job. Get rid of the body. Might make people think that he’s run off or something. I don’t want there to be any trace. People don’t need to know that it was me who did it. Or, anyway, the people that matter will know. Nobody else.’

  Hutton’s nodding quietly. Saying nothing. Shug’s drunk, obviously. Rambling, telling him things that don’t need to be said. A hit against Fizzy would be very easy. It’s a bad sign, though. It’s not a break with the pathetic past, from where Hutton’s sitting. It’s a clear sign that Shug isn’t capable of taking his own people with him when his organization grows. Think about it: Fizzy isn’t the only person from the past who knows incriminating things about Shug. Anyone who ever worked for his car-ring does. Is he going to go round killing them all? Hutton won’t say any of that, though. Not his place. Not his plan.

  ‘Okay. I know where he lives. I’ll make sure it’s clean.’

  ‘Should be easy at his house,’ Shug’s going on. ‘His girlfriend won’t
be there. Her father’s dying of cancer in Dundee, so she’s up there staying with her sister. That’s a bonus, eh?’

  ‘Aye,’ Hutton’s nodding, and getting to his feet. ‘That’ll make things easier.’

  Hutton’s out of the house and into his car. Contemplating what he just heard. Shug’s weak. Throwing his weight around to try and look strong. Always means you’re weak. Easy to see which way the wind is blowing. As if Hutton didn’t already know. He’s been planning this for a while. He and John Young, planning it together. Now has to be the time. If not now, then when? He’s well away from Shug’s house before he pulls over and gets his mobile out. Dialling the number Young gave him, waiting for an answer. Young’s a smart operator. Kept giving Hutton little jobs over the years to keep him sweet. Never hired him full-time, but bought a little loyalty.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hi, George, it’s Shaun Hutton. We need to meet. Urgent.’

  No pause at all. ‘Same flat as before. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’ Hanging up. No need for long conversations. They’re the sort that get you into trouble.

  Hutton would be happier if he was meeting Young personally, but that’s out. Too much risk at a time like this. Got to keep as much separation as possible. So Hutton’s going to meet one of Young’s people. Fellow called George Daly. Smart little cookie, by all accounts. They met before, a few weeks ago. George is essentially Hutton’s handler. Seems weird to Hutton, but that’s how Young wants to play it. Makes sense really, if you think about it. If Young and Hutton get spotted together then everyone knows Hutton’s stabbing Shug in the back. Hutton and George are seen together and it could mean anything. Could be that George is feeding info to Hutton, rather than the other way round. Lets you keep control of the situation. Hutton’s at the flat, sure that he hasn’t been followed. Grotty little place. Grotty little area. Hutton assumes this is what all the flats they use as meeting places look like. He hasn’t seen the better ones. Won’t, either, until he crosses over to work for them full-time.

  George is five minutes later than expected. Apologies for the delay. They’re sitting in the kitchen because there’s less damp there than in the living room. Less being relative. You can still smell it. See the black patches on the top of the walls and in the corners.

  ‘Shug called me to his house,’ Hutton’s saying, ‘about an hour ago. Little over that. Told me that he wants me to do a job on Fizzy Waters.’

  ‘His right-hand man?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Says Fizzy’s on the outside. Must want to move on, leave him behind. Except that he doesn’t want to leave him behind. Wants to get rid of him altogether. Wants it done quick, too. I don’t know. Seems to me like the guy’s losing it.’

  ‘Doesn’t he know what it’ll look like if he wipes out his best mate?’ George is asking. Genuinely shocked that Shug could be this stupid.

  ‘Nah,’ Hutton’s saying, and waving a dismissive hand. ‘He doesn’t know how the business works. Not really. He’s making it up as he goes along. Bugger doesn’t have a clue.’

  George will talk to Jamieson and Young about it. Report to them, find out what they want done. They tell George, George tells Hutton. Then Hutton does what he’s told. If they want Fizzy dead too, then Fizzy’s a dead man. Might be useful for them to let Shug make a mug of himself. Be seen to make very public mistakes. Hopefully not. As he makes his way back home, Hutton’s hoping that his future employers want a different outcome. Don’t let Shug have his own way. Hutton can hardly think of a worse job. A man losing control of his business, hitting the bottle, lashing out at his friends. The odds of this ending in disaster are pretty damned obvious. Hutton doesn’t want to be anywhere near Shug when it all starts to implode. If he’s lashing out at lifetime friends, what’s he going to do to a man like Hutton? The sooner he makes the crossover to Jamieson’s organization, the better.

  21

  A knock on the door. Loud, demanding. Deana Burke is sitting bolt upright in bed. Looking at the clock. Five minutes past eleven. It won’t be someone she wants to see. Creeping to the window and looking down onto the street. There’s a red car parked two doors down that she doesn’t recognize. Can’t see anyone. She’s wearing a thin slip, so she’s grabbing a dressing gown from the wardrobe. Putting slippers on, thinking it’s a good idea in case she has to run outside. Run in slippers. Yeah, that’ll get you far. She’s cursing herself. She should be ready for the worst. She should have to hand everything she needs for a quick exit. So some thug tells you that Shug doesn’t see you as a target. That doesn’t mean you stop thinking for yourself. Plan. Plan for everything.

  She’s standing at the top of the stairs. Another knock. Just as loud second time around. She hasn’t switched a light on. They can’t know for certain that she’s home. Unless they’ve been watching the house. Of course they bloody have. They’ll have been watching it for hours. They’ll have seen the lights on. They’ll know she hasn’t left, just gone to bed. She knows this is how they do it. Can’t remember now who told her. Not Kenny. Another boyfriend, years ago. She said something about people breaking doors down or sneaking in with lock-picks. Someone or other laughed and said no, gunmen mostly just ring the doorbell. You answer and they shoot. The gun’s going to make a noise anyway. Better it makes a noise when you’re standing on the doorstep ready to run, than upstairs in a dark house you don’t know. This person banging on her door could have the gun out already. Ready to fire on her the second she opens it. She never asked what happens when the person doesn’t answer.

  Out the back. No. They’ll have that covered. This isn’t some halfwit organization. They got rid of Kenny. They’ve won round Nate Colgan. They’re lashing out at Peter Jamieson. They know better than to leave the back door unguarded. Face it–that’s what you do. You hold your head up and you face it. Like when Colgan turned up for Shug, she answered the door because the alternative was to hide in terror. That’s not her. She won’t let them turn her into that sort of person. She’s marching down the stairs–and marching is the word–flicking on two light switches at the bottom. One for the stairs, one for the hallway at the front door. It’s overkill, but she wants the place lit up. She wants people to see. She’s grabbing the door handle. Twisting the lock and yanking open the door. The man on the step has taken a sudden step backwards. Surprised by her aggression. She’s about to say something quite unladylike when she sees who it is. Now she’s saying something worse.

  ‘Bloody hell, what the fuck are you doing knocking on my door like that at this hour? I nearly had a heart attack.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ DI Fisher’s saying, putting up a calming hand. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. I knew you were in bed, so I had to knock loud.’

  ‘How the hell did you know I was in bed?’

  ‘I’ve been watching the house for the last couple of hours,’ he’s saying. ‘Checking up. You said someone came and threatened you. I wanted to see if they were watching you. See if they were keeping tabs. Might be that you’re a target too, no matter what anyone says. So I’ve been out here for the last couple of hours. Further down the street. I saw the lights going off in the house. Figured if they were going to change shifts, it would be then. Nothing. There’s nobody watching you.’

  ‘I don’t recognize that red car,’ she’s saying, nodding out towards the street. It’s a surly comeback, wanting to shoot a hole in his argument because he rattled her.

  ‘That’s mine,’ he’s saying. ‘I moved it up the street just now. Listen, Deana, can I come in? We still need to talk.’

  They don’t need to talk. That’s what Deana’s thinking. But she knows you don’t send a copper away. You play along and let them say and do whatever makes them happy. She’s stepping aside and letting him pass. Glancing out into the street as she does so. What if one of Shug’s men is watching? She’s closing the door and turning to face him. Fisher’s standing politely in the hallway, waiting for her to decide where the conversati
on will take place. Politeness doesn’t seem a natural fit for him, from everything Kenny said. She’s seen pictures of the cop. Kenny pointed him out in a couple of newspaper articles. He looks older in real life. Shorter, less imposing. He does look tough, though, and Kenny said he was. Looks like he’s struggling with his politeness.

  Deana’s decided that they’re going to have this conversation in the kitchen. Better to have a light on at the back of the house than the front, she’s figuring. Fisher’s sitting at the table. She hasn’t offered him a cup of tea, and she won’t. Nothing that encourages him to stay. He isn’t going to do anything for her. He’s not capable. She’s put all her eggs in Peter Jamieson’s basket, and she’s content with that. If anyone’s going to make sure Kenny’s killers see justice, it’ll be Jamieson. She’s making sure her dressing gown is pulled firmly shut. No hint of skin. Only a face with no make-up. Nothing that would make him want to stay.

  ‘Have you had any trouble since?’ Fisher’s asking. Opening the conversation, trying to keep it friendly. Hard to keep it friendly. He hates this woman. Can’t put it any simpler than that. She’s every bit as bad as Kenny. She knew everything he was up to. She turned a blind eye, because she liked the life it paid for. These gangster tarts make him sick. But he is better at hiding it than he was.

  She can see the effort. The strain it puts on him just to make conversation. But she can’t see the loathing, or at least doesn’t recognize it. She just thinks he’s an arrogant, antisocial prick.

  ‘No trouble since,’ she’s saying with a shrug. ‘The thug who was here said there wouldn’t be. So long as I don’t talk to you, so thank you very much for coming.’

  ‘We need to have a conversation that you can’t hang up on,’ he’s saying. ‘I can’t find the people who took Kenny until I know what you know. I’m working on the assumption that Kenny is dead. I think that’s the common-sense approach to take. But I also have another missing person to try and find. Have you heard the name Richard Hardy?’