The knock at the door was just a bit too loud – not loud enough for the bizzies, but if it had been a raid they wouldn’t bother knocking anyway.
‘Who the fuck is that?’ Maggie muttered as she started to get herself together again. ‘They know we don’t deal on a Saturday night.’ She pushed a cigarette into her mouth and raked among the crap on the coffee table for something to light it with.
Banjo didn’t like it, and years of keeping his arse out of the grinder gave him a sixth sense of when things were right and when things were definitely wrong. The knock at the door was wrong.
He pulled on the slippers Maggie had shoplifted out of Marks and Spencer’s for his Christmas and then tried to shuffle as quietly as he could to the door. It had been reinforced after the bizzies had caved it in twice looking for a result, and it would take a rocket-propelled grenade to get through the thing now. Banjo pressed his eye against the peephole and nearly pissed himself with fright at the giant eye on the other side. He stepped back. ‘What the fuck?’ Unfortunately he said it loudly enough for the men outside to hear.
Maggie came up behind him, put her hand on his shoulder and sucked on her cigarette.
‘Banjo, it’s Billy Nelson. Will you open the fuckin’ door? It’s not the police for God’s sake.’
Banjo exhaled and nodded to Maggie, pointing back towards the lounge. ‘Go and sit back through there, doll; it’s only the Belfast boys. I’ll tell them to fuck off.’
He kept the door closed and told them it was Saturday night, lied that he was out of gear till Monday and could they come back then.
He pressed his eye back to the peephole and saw that Nelson was with Dougie Fisher. He liked Fisher; he was the quiet one but always bought a round of drinks and spoke to Maggie as if she was a lady. They weren’t welcome on his night off, but they were good guys as far as Banjo was concerned so he opened the door.
‘Look, boys, I’m having a quiet night in with Maggie if you know what I mean.’ He winked, hoping they’d believe that because he was in his vest and pants there was something else going on apart from him injecting heroin into his veins.
Nelson didn’t wait to be asked and pushed past Banjo, Fisher following him. Banjo shrugged, deciding it was better to sort it out so he could get back to the rest of the powder he’d put aside for later.
He went to the bathroom first, did what he had to do to relieve the aching pressure on his bladder and splashed cold water on his face. He looked in the mirror and wondered who the fuck the wreck looking back at him was before heading back through to his guests.
But when he pushed the door to the lounge open he stopped dead. Because what he expected to see was not what he was seeing. In a normal human being this could stop a man in his tracks for a few seconds while the brain reconfigured and tried to answer its own questions. It took Banjo a bit longer, as it had been a while since his brain had been normal. Maggie was back in her chair, slumped again and nothing unusual in that. What Banjo couldn’t work out was why her nose was quite clearly broken, blood trailing down the front of her old dressing gown. Nelson and Fisher were sitting smoking as if everything was as it should be, but Maggie moaned quietly, only half-conscious.
‘What the fuck?’ He hesitated for a moment and could think of nothing to add. ‘I mean, what the fuck?’
‘Sit down, Banjo, and I’ll explain everything to you – but could you make us a nice cup of tea first? Had fish and chips earlier and I’m parched.’
Nelson drew on his cigarette, pointed the remote control at the TV and clicked onto a programme about crocodiles.
Banjo’s earlier instincts had been on the money, and he knew that for the moment the best thing he could do was make the tea and hope he’d survive. He was a born survivor; his instinct was to take Maggie in his arms, but he knew that everything he’d previously thought about Nelson and his boys was wrong. Until he worked out what they were going to say, he would do whatever it was they wanted. They’d torn up the script, and whoever they were and whatever they really wanted was about to be revealed. He knew drug dealing carried risks but this felt a bit fucking ridiculous – Maggie was badly hurt and the blood was bubbling at her nose.
He sat down beside her but he couldn’t take his eyes off Nelson, wondering what had just walked into his flat and wrecked Maggie’s face.
Nelson leaned forward and stubbed out his cigarette on the wooden surface of the coffee table, ignoring the ashtray about six inches away. ‘I’m going to make this simple for you, and I really hope you understand everything I tell you. We’re going into business, and when I say “we” I certainly don’t mean a dirty little fuck like you. I mean you’re going to work for us.’
Nelson looked straight at Banjo, just to make sure he was getting the message. He definitely got it, nodded and reached for a cigarette, managing to put one in his mouth despite the worst case of the shakes he’d had in a while.
Fisher leaned over, lit him up and winked as if that would make him feel better.
‘It’s this way: the boys and I’ve decided that the market round here needs a bit of freshening up – so we’re taking over. As of the moment Dougie belted Maggie, you work for us, will be supplied by us and pay your dues to us. It’s that simple. No need for any fuss, and I’m sure we’re going to make a happy team.’
He nodded as if that was it and seemed to be waiting for Banjo to say how pleased he was. Banjo was incapable of forming the words.
‘By the way,’ Nelson continued, ‘you’ll be pleased to know that we’re signing up most of the other dealers round here so you’re not alone.’
As if that made him feel like he was part of a greater good. Banjo tried to think before opening his mouth and drew on his cigarette. And that’s when he noticed it. Standing on top of the ironing board, which always sat in the same position by the kitchen door, was the iron. What was strange was that it had been switched on. Neither Banjo nor Maggie ever used the iron, and it took no more than a moment for him to work it out. He stared at a tiny mote that was bouncing around in front of him and realised that whatever he was about to say was going to mean less to Nelson than that tiny speck of dust. All he could do was give it a try. He was annoyed at himself as the shakes had taken hold of his voice and he knew that the Billy Nelsons of this world savoured fear like ticks on blood.
‘Look, I’ll do whatever you say, but I get my gear from the Flemings, and I don’t know if you’ve met them yet but they’ll cut my fuckin’ throat if they think I’m pissin’ them about.’ He lit up another cigarette and glanced at Maggie, who seemed to be sleeping – she was breathing steadily and the blood seemed to be drying round her nose. He knew they weren’t there for excuses and would know all about the Flemings.
He looked at the iron again and heard a slight hiss as the remaining water boiled. They were there to send out a message: a very loud and clear message.
Nelson smiled, nodding to Fisher, who stood up and walked over to the ironing board. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s not what I wanted to hear. Now go sit in the fuckin’ corner or I’ll kick you there myself.’
Banjo did as he was told and froze in that paralysing combination of fear and helplessness as he watched Nelson rip open the dressing gown covering what was left of Maggie’s dignity. Fisher laughed as he pushed the hot iron hard onto her left then her right breast, holding it in place to make sure the flesh was burning properly.
In the flat next door the elderly neighbours heard the screams and looked at each other, shaking their heads in synchronised irritation that there was a disturbance during The X Factor. The screams they heard were coming from Banjo. The old couple turned up the volume to drown out the noise.
Half a mile away Andy Clark and Rob McLean were handing out a severe beating to another dealer who’d made the mistake of believing the Ulster boys were dreaming and worse than mad if they thought they were making a move to take over. They were pleased when he told them to ‘fuck right off’ because then they didn’t have to pretend t
hey’d come with an option. That’s how it all kicked off.
7
Grace Macallan sat behind her desk and stared at the chaos that was her in tray. She tried to think of an excuse to put it off to another day, but the more she stared at it the more it refused to move. ‘No excuses left,’ she murmured.
There was no one else in her room, and she liked to talk out loud as a kind of stress relief. She knew that hidden in the basket were overdue requests from the assistant chief’s office asking for updates on progress and figures so they could keep the politicians happy for another month. It was a pain in the arse, so she decided she was going to pull rank and delegate.
She picked up the phone and asked DI Jimmy McGovern to come through, knowing that it was an excuse to drink a coffee and speak to him as an alternative to taking on her correspondence.
McGovern stepped through the door and smiled. ‘In-tray problems? Don’t worry, I’ve ordered the coffee.’
McGovern always had a smile – he was the man who reminded her almost every other day that it was only paperwork and they’d get it done. He knew where the real problems lay, and they were not in the requests for stats from the vast bureaucratic swamp that sucked in figures, projected trends, spending, staff movements and all the other trivia that was created then disappeared over the heads of those that demanded it. So much of their lives seemed to be a constant battle to shape the figures in a way that kept everyone happy; the doers cooked the figures, and the bean counters knew they were cooked, but as long as they looked good and had something positive to say then they could all sleep happily in their beds.
After the chaos that had followed the arrest of Jonathon Barclay, McGovern had been drafted into the team at the worst of times. He was pure gold for Macallan and just what the team had needed. Harkins had been pensioned out with his injuries, the former head of the squad, John O’Connor, had been packed off to lead the professional standards team and counter-corruption unit for his perceived failings, and Macallan had been promoted into his place. In another couple of years that might have been the right move for her, but it was probably too quick, and O’Connor, who’d been her lover for too short a time, blamed her for his downfall. Now he was head of counter corruption, which could make her life difficult.
Counter corruption was proactive and had its own intelligence unit that looked for exploitable gaps in the system and bent officers. Professional standards took care of all the rest of the barrage of complaints levelled at officers both good and bad. The problems didn’t have to be real – there just had to be someone with an axe to grind.
Unusual for a detective because he had a stable private life, McGovern was steady, which made him worth his weight, and he could kick arse without the tables being turned on him. Royal Navy as a young man, he’d married his first girlfriend and had two kids who did him proud. He didn’t suck up to anyone, which meant some investigators just didn’t get him and always suspected there had to be a flaw somewhere, but McGovern was just one of those guys who took it as it came and was happy with his lot. He watched the rest of the pack as they scrambled for position, back-stabbing each other as if it were a requirement of the job, shook his head and went home to his wife and kids. What was not in dispute was that the man was hard – it was in the shape of the face, the walk, the way he was in control at the worst of times and, best of all, he had a lifelong passion for amateur boxing. Five foot ten but seeming taller, he was a middleweight and everything was in proportion. McGovern verged on good-looking, and if anything the scar tissue around the eyes and the twice-broken nose added to his attractiveness. He still trained whenever he could, and good health showed in his eyes and skin.
The coffee arrived and McGovern poured out the steaming brew, watching Macallan’s shoulders relax as he handed her the cup. She’d been running the team for months without a chief inspector and was trying to do both jobs, which was next to impossible. He liked her though, as much as anyone he’d ever worked for or with, and there was a good reason for it. When McGovern looked at Macallan he saw someone who actually cared about the job and the people she worked with, yet she seemed to have very little regard for her own well-being. It seemed to be work and then more work.
He knew her story – how she’d left Northern Ireland under a cloud and how badly her relationship with John O’Connor had ended. O’Connor had become a bitter man and a pest for the team – rumour had it that he’d been the one keeping them short of a DCI. In addition to all that, the fact that Macallan had lost her friend Harkins meant she needed all the help she could get.
She looked weary and those green eyes that could sparkle in a darkened room were tired and dull. The type of man he was meant that he could never be another Harkins for her, but he’d be there when she needed him.
‘Can we get one of the overambitious ones to take care of some of this crap I’ve got?’ she asked him. ‘I can’t face it and think I’ll take a bit of time off. Haven’t had a day away from the office for weeks, and we seem to be having a quiet spell so I might as well use it. You can look after the shop, and it’ll look good on your appraisal.’ She smiled. ‘As if that would matter to you.’
‘Consider it done. I’ve got the perfect sycophant out there who’ll be delighted to clear the mess. He wants to be chief constable before he’s thirty so dealing with the dross in your tray should be good practice. You get yourself away before we have to carry you out. I’ll take care of anything he can’t deal with and pretend I’m you.’
‘That obvious I’m knackered?’ She said this with a frown as it made her feel even worse.
‘That obvious and no wonder. When the balloon goes up again you’ll need to be sharp and get it right. You’re exhausted, and that’s when mistakes get made. You don’t need mistakes when Mr O’Connor is waiting on his perch to swoop down and devour you.’
She sipped the coffee and decided he was on the money. ‘Okay, I know you’re right. I’ll book off for a week, but if anything happens I’ll be straight back. I’ve never been to the far north of Scotland so maybe I’ll drive up there, find a place with a bar, walk and read a book.’
‘That sounds about right, and don’t you worry – I’ll keep in touch.’
She nodded and felt herself give in to the thoughts of time away from the job. ‘Is everything quiet out there or is there anything I need to know?’
‘The jobs we have are all in the early stages of development or we’re preparing the evidence for the ones we’ve finished. There’s a bit of research going on for future jobs, but you know about them.’
She nodded and drained the last of the coffee. ‘Jesus help me, I’m knackered,’ she said and stretched her arms above her head.
‘There is one thing worth mentioning, but I’m not sure what it means yet. There were a couple of dealers found messed up in Wester Hailes over the weekend. One of them is in a pretty bad way but will make it. I should say the other is the female partner of a dealer rather than the dealer himself. She’s in a bad way too but will also survive. Strange one – her nose is smashed and she has an iron burn on each breast. The docs thought it was domestic violence and called the cavalry. Apparently the boyfriend was there but, for whatever reason, the boys don’t think it was him, and he seemed to be scared shitless.’ He shrugged and shook his head. ‘Maybe just coincidence but you never know.’
‘How bad is she?’ Macallan asked, but her mind was already on the north of Scotland and the thought of escaping for a few days.
‘She’ll be in hospital a few days and then it depends whether she’ll agree to further treatment. She’s a sex worker down Leith – so she’s saying nothing and not making a complaint.’ McGovern waited for Macallan to respond, but she was still thinking about walking on long empty beaches. ‘Maybe someone’s taxing the small dealers or taking over. Who knows, but there’s a couple of intelligence reports from human sources that a team’s moved in from Northern Ireland and getting a bit heavy. Nothing to connect the two things, but we’ll keep
an eye on it.’
Macallan felt a tremor in her stomach and forgot about the beaches. Northern Ireland – two punters messed up and one of them tortured. McGovern wouldn’t realise it but somewhere deep inside her, tiny electrical impulses started to fire up and search.
She looked out of the window across the green playing fields and knew whoever these boys from Northern Ireland were, they were only a few short miles from her office. She felt them. ‘Keep me informed,’ she told him. ‘Anything at all.’
McGovern saw the look in her eye and wondered what it was that she was seeing. ‘Don’t worry, nothing will start without you,’ he replied.
As he left the office he told her not to answer the phone or speak to anyone on the way out. ‘Just go and relax.’
Macallan decided to walk back to her new flat in Inverleith (which was, as always, an impulse buy) and wondered again how she was going to pay the mortgage. She loved it though, and when she walked in the door it was like an old friend wrapping their arms round her. She was in the process of throwing whatever came to hand into a small holdall and rucksack, with the intention of quickly getting as far away from crime and horror stories as she could, when she saw her phone shimmy across the dresser. There was no caller ID so she told the phone to fuck off, but the phone rules the user and finally she caved in and put it to her ear. ‘Hello?’
‘Hi, Grace, how are you? It’s Jack.’
She had missed a call from him at the office earlier and, without even thinking, she’d texted him her mobile number. She closed her eyes and tried to think of the right thing to say. Don’t make an arse of yourself, Grace, she mouthed without a sound.
‘Jack, didn’t think I’d hear from you. Long time now since the funeral.’ She thought that wasn’t too bad, then closed her eyes in a mini panic, unsure where the feeling was coming from.
‘Hadn’t forgotten. I’ve been tied up with a difficult case involving some UDA boys from Carrickfergus who won’t move into the twenty-first century.’
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