Macallan knew all about the case and that Fraser had been prosecuting counsel, by all accounts doing a brilliant job – but then he always did. She decided to keep up the pretence that she wasn’t interested in him. He carried on, and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to figure out exactly what she wanted or hoped he would say. Mick Harkins’ imaginary budgie flew past her face.
‘I’ve got a conference on European legal assistance to attend in Edinburgh in a couple of weeks and wondered if I could buy you coffee, dinner or a drink when I’m there?’
She tried to keep it calm and slightly disinterested, but later in the evening she would finally admit to herself that the invitation was exactly what she’d wanted.
‘I’m going away for a few days, Jack, but should be back then. When things take off in this job it tends to be intense to say the least, but I’ll do my best.’ She thought that sounded just about the right tone, then realised that the reflection in her hall mirror was punching the air.
‘I’ll call you before I arrive to let you know what the arrangements are and see what we can fix up.’
She said goodbye and put the phone down, excited and pleased. He was someone who’d torn her up and left her struggling against a tide of recriminations before she left Northern Ireland. But she’d learned to forgive, and if her life had taught her anything, it was that all men carried flaws – and the greater the man the greater the flaws.
She went back to packing her case, felt that warm sense of anticipation and decided to enjoy it. An hour later she closed the door behind her, climbed into the wreck with wheels that was all she could afford with her mortgage, and headed north.
Macallan’s jaw dropped at the endless stretch of wild country she was discovering in the north west of Scotland. The sun shone through the chill air, and the light sparkled off Sutherland’s damp hills and lochs. Every few miles she stopped the car to look at some new marvel, and the effect seemed to charge energy through her veins and make her feel young again. The quiet in the ancient landscape was proof that there was something apart from the worst parts of the human condition – that there existed a place in which peace could be found. This was a different country – a different world. She’d been to the Highlands, but this wild place had its own character, and she was overwhelmed by it. This was what she needed more than anything – the chance to escape from the city and the masses of people crowding each other’s space; away from the memories shaped by deviant human behaviour; reaffirmation that life didn’t have to be like that.
She drove the last couple of miles down into the small, busy fishing town of Kinlochbervie and felt her spirits lift. The tension melted from her shoulders, and she turned up the radio thumping out an old Stones classic and started to sing along like a teenager. That was all she wanted to do for the next week – just stare at the horizon and let her mind drift. A break from the pretence that she was above it all, the archetypal hard-bitten detective so admired in fiction, the reality being that she rarely had the opportunity to be what she was – a woman with needs and dreams. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d danced or bought a dress for something or someone special. Too long.
She’d booked a small stone cottage near the sea and the owner, who lacked company herself, seemed to want to spend the rest of the day talking, but Macallan managed to ease her out of the door so she could be alone. She’d spent so many days and nights longing for human company, but that wasn’t what she wanted here. She was tired, so tired it hurt, and her muscles felt like they’d been through a marathon.
After she’d piled wood onto the fire and watched it blaze, she poured a glass of wine and settled down to let the flames entertain her.
She woke up with a start a while later and took a few seconds to settle the panic in her breast. The fire had calmed down, but she realised she’d only drifted off for a few minutes and that it was her mobile, alerting her to an incoming text message, that had woken her up. The text was from Fraser telling her to enjoy her break and that he’d see her soon. The message ended with an ‘x’. She smiled to herself, dropped another couple of logs onto the fire and sipped her wine. The cottage was warm now, and she just wanted to stay in the moment for as long as possible. In the end it was 2 a.m. before she eventually sank into bed.
Macallan hardly moved from the cottage for the next two days. She was exhausted, ached and needed to do nothing but forget the job.
8
Maggie Smith stared out of her window as the darkness fell over Edinburgh. The sky was a deep cobalt blue and cloudless, and the air blown down from the Arctic on freezing northerly winds had coated the world in a hard, glinting frost. It hadn’t lifted all day, and the ancient heating system in the flats was barely coping with the temperature change. She had a cardigan pulled closed over a jersey she’d taken from Banjo’s limited supply of warm clothes.
The windowpanes turned black as the sun disappeared for another day, and she could see the dark silhouette of her head looking back at her in her reflection. She couldn’t see her eyes, but when she turned her head to the side she could see the altered shape of her shattered nose.
She dipped her face and looked down to avoid what she knew was there. Every time she looked away she would be back at a mirror ten minutes later, as if the damage would be gone and it might all have been a bad dream. She wasn’t a vain person – couldn’t be, given the life she led – but she was human, and the image she’d always known mattered to her, till those animals from Belfast had decided to use her to get to Banjo.
She looked round at him snoring in his chair, the telly blaring out some crap music channel. She wasn’t naive – in fact she was probably a bit smarter than Banjo when it came to real life – so she understood they’d hurt her to send a message to the local dealers and the Flemings that a change was taking place. It happened every so often, but she knew that this was going to be messier than normal. She’d seen the look in Nelson’s eyes and what had terrified her was that he wasn’t the least bit angry – just cold and in control.
Dougie Fisher had laughed when he’d pushed the iron to the soft flesh of her breasts. She’d hardly been conscious, but Banjo had, and she’d never seen him as distressed as he was when he told her what had happened.
When she’d arrived at the hospital the pain had been unbearable till they put her under. Later, the doctor had told her that she could get surgery and everything would be fine.
‘Fine.’ She’d mouthed the word quietly. Then she’d lain there, wondering about what he had said. Why did they always say ‘fine’? ‘That’ll be fuckin’ shinin’ bright,’ she murmured as she remembered. How could she be fine when she was a part-time hooker, living with a league-division-four dealer who’d been reduced to a nervous wreck, caught in the crossfire between the maniacs from Belfast and the Flemings who were still to come? Her face and body had been defiled, she was still in shock, and yet she did something she tended to avoid: she thought about the future. That frightened her almost as much as Billy Nelson.
She remembered how she used to dream all day about what might lie ahead when she was a girl. She’d dreamed of children, a home of her own and a good man to hold her in the dark. Now the future was shapeless, and her imagination could not overcome the reality of what she was.
She pushed a soiled hankie gingerly under her nose to dry the constant streaming. She’d thought carefully about suicide but wasn’t sure that life frightened her enough yet; she remembered someone telling her that when you really wanted to do it, the fear was of living rather than of death itself. Death was the goal.
She sat down opposite Banjo and felt tired in the marrow of her bones as she dozed off.
Banjo’s phone chirped ‘The Birdie Song’ and he took time to realise where he was and what had woken him. He’d gulped down a few cans of extra-strong lager, and his brain felt like mush with the combination of anxiety, exhaustion and a variety of abused substances. Maggie was out for the count as he shoved the phone against his ear.
/> ‘We’re just pulling up outside, Banjo, be up there in a minute.’
The sound of Danny Fleming’s voice snapped him to full alert, and he reached for the cigarettes. Leaning over towards the sleeping woman, he pleaded, ‘Maggie, wake up for fuck’s sake. Danny’s here, and he’s got company.’
He grabbed her shoulders, shook her awake and her eyes widened when she took in what he was saying. They hadn’t seen the Flemings in the time since their visit from the Belfast boys and had been dreading trying to explain what had happened. Banjo had decided to tell them everything and hope that their inevitable retaliation would take place well away from his arse. There would be a winner, and he’d already made up his mind who he was backing.
He snapped his head up when he heard the tap at the door. He always thought it was strange that a violent fucker like Danny Fleming was so light on the door.
A quick look through the peephole made Banjo groan inwardly; Danny was with his father, Joe, who was even more unstable than his bampot son and just couldn’t do diplomacy. These were big, hard men, who were definitely not used to being on the losing side.
When Banjo opened the door, they walked in without waiting for the nicety of an invitation. Maggie looked at the floor, trying to hide her face and her shame, but Danny took her roughly by the chin and pulled her face up to examine it.
‘What in the name of fuck happened here?’ he asked, as if he cared – conveniently forgetting that he’d dished out some of the same to other women.
Banjo started shaking again as Joe Fleming took him by the throat and pushed him against the kitchen door, his face close enough for both of them to realise that they shared a problem with bad breath. He knew this was all part of the script; he had to get the story over to them and focus their attention on the real enemy.
‘What the fuck you blamin’ me for?’ he asked. ‘Come on, look at the lassie’s face – that’s what they did, and I fuckin’ told them I worked for you and Danny.’
He would have licked their shoes if it would’ve calmed them down. His main issue was making sure they understood he was still in their camp and not working for the other team. In their world there were no contracts or loyalty pledges, it was just eat whoever was in front of you – even if they’d been your best friend for life.
The father and son sat down, pulled cigarettes out of Banjo’s packet and waited for the story. He told them every detail as it happened, and knowing he had to get their anger channelled towards Nelson and his crew, he threw in the embellishment that they’d laughed when he told them he worked for the Flemings.
‘They just pissed themselves, Joe, and said they’d enjoy seeing you in the Water o’ Leith.’ He kept his face as neutral as possible and relaxed as he saw their anger rise again, but not at him.
‘Don’t you worry – we’ll sort the bastards for what they’ve done to Maggie,’ said Danny.
On hearing this, Maggie had to bite her lip, thinking about what he’d done to other women, including Pauline Johansson. It was a relief to see Banjo was in control, and she had to admire his acting abilities.
The Flemings left without closing the door and told them the Belfast boys would be in Accident and Emergency in a couple of hours if they were lucky.
Banjo closed the door and lit another cigarette before picking up the phone and calling Nelson. ‘That’s the father and son on their way, and I guess they’ll have baseball bats or something with them.’ He looked at Maggie as he made the call, and she nodded in agreement, hating herself and her life but seeing no alternative.
What Banjo had left out in his account to the Flemings was that he was backing the other side; he wanted to live and knew the winners when he saw them. He put his arms round Maggie and prayed that he’d made the right move. He felt her body shake uncontrollably.
‘God help us.’
The Flemings had already made their first and worst mistake. For years no one had taken them on to any real extent, and like any good fighter it was match practice that kept you at the top of the game. They’d gone soft and forgotten that in the criminal world you needed to keep your senses sharp and remember that in the city no one is more than a few yards from a rat. As they’d done so often in the past, the Flemings thought that all they needed to do was call on Nelson, give him a good seeing to and everything would go back to normal. They failed to remember they’d hit the top themselves by taking out the opposition who’d made the same mistake.
Danny Fleming was angry and drove the BMW the half-mile to the block where the Belfast man was waiting for them and parked up outside. They stared up at the fourth floor where Nelson lived and saw the lights on. Joe Fleming pulled out his phone and called Banjo. He’d ordered him to check that Nelson was in, using the excuse that he needed to make arrangements to pick up gear from them.
‘Are they in?’
‘Just called and Billy’s there on his own. The other boys are out on the piss.’ Banjo tried to keep his voice steady to cover the lie.
Joe was pleased. ‘Excellent, we’ll take care of them later.’
They walked round to the boot, pulled out a pickaxe handle and Danny took charge of a twelve-pound mash hammer. They already had their knives stowed inside their jackets.
They walked into the flats then took the stairs to avoid any noise, but by the third flight Joe was blowing too hard. He’d made another mistake – he was just too fucking old for going toe to toe with younger men. Certainly not men who’d served in the UVF or the Army. Danny shook his head, realising that his father was human, and his reputation had been gained in a time that was long gone now.
‘Jesus, are you up for this?’ Danny mocked his father.
‘Shut the fuck up. I’ll show you in a minute whether I’m up for it,’ Joe gasped and stopped to catch his wheezing breath.
When they got to the fourth floor they stood at the door, settling themselves down, and listened for any movement inside. The stair lighting was out so the landing was in near darkness when Joe nodded to his son to do the door.
Danny smiled, excited at the thought of handing out a double dose to Nelson or maybe even killing the arrogant bastard. As he always told people – and particularly his victims – ‘No one fucks with the Flemings.’
Danny had the hammer on full backswing when he felt the hard end of the Uzi pressed against the back of his head. Joe managed to get out, ‘What the fuck?’ when he felt the other machine gun being stabbed into his ribcage. The sound of harsh Belfast tones told father and son just about all they needed to know, and Dougie Fisher gave them their next instructions.
‘Now put down the hammer, Danny boy, and just knock at the door. No need to break the fucker open. Billy’s expecting you.’ Fisher laughed quietly.
Andy Clark took the heel of the gun and whacked it against the back of Joe’s ear, opening up a three-inch cut that bled onto his jacket. The older man gasped with the shock, but it had the desired effect and his son did exactly as he was told. He knocked at the door in that same quiet tap that had puzzled Banjo.
Nelson opened the door and looked pleased. ‘Come in, boys. It’s nice to see you. We’ve heard a lot about you, and so far you’re living up to all the descriptions. A couple of useless fuckers living on their reputations. Tape them up.’ He spat the last three words.
Clark, Fisher and Rob McLean got to work on them and by the time they’d finished the Flemings could barely breathe with the amount of duct tape wrapped round the lower half of their faces. Their hands were secured behind them and swelling from the pressure. Joe was scared in a way that he hadn’t known since the days his father used to come in drunk and visit him in his room. He’d already worked out that Banjo had fucked them over and that he would only have done that if he was more frightened of Nelson than him. Banjo had seen what Joe and his idiot son had missed – these boys were playing to win and they weren’t about to give quarter to someone who’d arrived at their door with a mash hammer and a pickaxe handle.
Sweat poured d
own his face even though the flat was cold, his ulcer springing to life and aching like a hot stone in his gut. He looked at his son, whose eyes were filled with confusion, and he realised they were done for. A few people would pretend that they’d had some redeeming qualities, but the truth was that in a month they’d be forgotten. The drugs and crime trades have to move on, and the competition means there’s no time to look back. He closed his eyes and prayed, even though he’d never considered a god other than himself for decades.
Nelson sat and smoked quietly as the boys did their work. When they were done he looked satisfied and smiled at old man Fleming.
‘There’s no need to tell you what happens now I suppose, and I’m not great on speeches, but you two are finished. If I was a gentler man then maybe I could mess you up a bit, but we all know that you or the rest of that Catholic family you belong to would come back at us. I’m guessing that you’re Catholics given the boy’s name. Is that right, Danny?’
Danny nodded like a child trying to please his elders, as if it would make any difference, and Nelson continued: ‘You know what we Loyalist boys are like about Catholics trying to kill us. Doesn’t get you a lot of brownie points where we come from, does it, boys?’
His team smiled and muttered in agreement, and Joe saw the bloodlust in their faces, the primeval need to do unto their enemies what had been intended for them.
‘Take the old man first.’ Nelson lit another cigarette as Joe was helped up then guided out of the lounge and walked through the hall into what was no more than a box room. When they opened the door there was only the hall light behind him and the room was empty, but he saw enough to try screaming though nothing escaped from his throat beyond a dull moaning sound. The walls and the floor had been covered with plastic sheeting stapled tight and sealed so no blood, bone or bodily fluids would stain the room for some nosey fucker from the scenes-of-crime department to find.
Evidence of Death Page 7