12
Billy Nelson knew his military tactics and had learned the hard way from Basra to Helmand province. Press home the advantage. He’d made his first move – now it was time to nail down what he’d started, and in his world there were always other predators looking for signs of weakness. He’d recognised it in Joe Fleming and spotted the soft underbelly of his arrogance. The rest of the Flemings were badly wounded, not completely out of it but the message had been sent to the other players that things were about to change. Nelson or his team couldn’t shout it too loudly, but it was handy if that’s what people thought.
The issue was that without bodies, other theories were spinning out of control among the bad men out there – not just in Edinburgh but in Glasgow, where the Flemings had sourced their gear. Nelson was the clear favourite – all the evidence pointed to him – but the Flemings weren’t the most popular people in town so maybe, just maybe, some other team had taken their shot at the title. Nelson needed to send out another message and make it clear – without a public declaration of who was doing what.
They had to keep quiet about what had happened to the Flemings because at some stage the local constabulary would come sniffing round and any evidence of a double murder could land them some serious prison time. As it stood there was little or nothing that could stick to them – they’d taken care to burn everything they’d worn that night and had torched the wheels that had been used to move the father and son to their final resting place. What was left to do was handle a few more dealers who needed to be forced over to the Belfast team, and there were still plenty who would work for what was left of the Flemings till someone told them different.
Most of the locals didn’t give a fuck who they worked for as long as they made their cut. It didn’t make a difference. As far as they were concerned, whoever was running the show would likely be a horrible bastard anyway, or how else would they have got in that position? But they were wrong. Edinburgh had been pretty stable for a long time, but outside the city a new breed of horrible bastard was taking shape, and Nelson ticked all the boxes in the curriculum vitae for the modern, violent criminal.
He sat in his rented BMW and blew a lungful of smoke out into the damp night air. The four Belfast boys were watching the front door of a block of flats that looked like all the other blocks in the area. On the fourth floor they could see the kitchen light on in the flat where Andy ‘Cue Ball’ Ross spent pretty much all of his existence – except for when he was picking up his gear from the Flemings (or at least from the Flemings that were still alive).
Cue Ball had earned his handle while he was doing his second stretch for possession with intent to supply. For no particular reason, a warder had decided he enjoyed giving Cue Ball a hard time, but he should have realised like everyone else had that the man was a psycho. His mother and father had known it soon after the pet cat they’d bought for their infant boy had died mysteriously. Cue Ball had strangled it, but they didn’t know that at the time, although they had wondered why he wasn’t in the least bit concerned. When the replacement cat went the same way, they’d known there was a problem, especially as he’d taken the time to cut its throat so he could watch it bleed.
The mistake that most people made with Cue Ball, as did this particular prison screw, was that he looked like the original eight-stone weakling, so he got picked on till his wiser contemporaries realised that his tormentors all seemed to end up in the hospital. The screw thought plain Andy Ross as he was at that time wasn’t up to it, but Cue Ball had set him up perfectly, creating a diversion so that he could get the screw where he wanted and attack him with a sock filled with three snooker balls – including the cue ball that would give him his name. The screw never worked again and ate all of his meals through a straw after that. No one saw a thing and no one was convicted, though everyone knew what had happened; the screw had been despised by his colleagues as well as the guests, so it all worked in Cue Ball’s favour.
Cue Ball was another local dealer on the same level as Banjo, and as far as Nelson was aware was still onside with what was left of the Fleming business, which according to his information was being run by Joe Fleming’s wife. She’d put it about that what had happened was down to Billy Nelson and that it wasn’t over.
‘That fuckin’ Fleming woman is next on the list,’ Nelson said quietly, breaking the silence. No one replied; they didn’t need to because when Billy spoke it was a done deal. ‘But first of all we need to take care of this cunt.’
They watched another junkie press the bell to get up to Cue Ball’s flat.
‘We sort this boy and then everyone knows who’s running the show.’ Billy looked round at Fisher and Clark, who were in the back seat. ‘Okay, boys, when the next junkie fuck comes to the door, we go in with them.’
They pulled on their balaclavas and waited.
They could tell the figure heading towards the flats was a junkie from his nervous walk – he twitched like there was a cattle prod being shoved in his arse every few seconds – and the way he kept scanning the street to see if anyone was watching. He was right on that one, but he was wrecked and didn’t notice the four Ulstermen weighing him up. They all came to the same conclusion, which Clark voiced for them.
‘Well I don’t think we’ll need to struggle much with that wee fucker.’
‘Dead right on that one,’ Nelson replied. ‘Think we just need to give him a hard stare and he’ll run a fuckin’ mile.’
The junkie wiped his streaming nose with the back of his sleeve and couldn’t believe how bad he felt. He was desperate and prayed that Cue Ball had some gear. He’d just screwed a couple of flats and flogged the goods for a fraction of their price, but he was desperate to get some relief into his veins.
He looked around again to make sure there weren’t any bizzies with nothing better to do and still he missed the car with Nelson and his pals, even though it was no more than twenty yards from the door.
The junkie felt a wave of relief when Cue Ball responded to his pressing the bell.
‘It’s me, Andy – need a bag or two.’
Cue Ball looked at the hazy black and white face on the entry service but could still make out the sweat running down the boy’s face.
‘What a fuckin’ state you’re in, boy. Come up,’ Cue Ball said, as if he gave a fuck about his customer’s health.
He walked back to the living room and waited for the junkie to make it up to his floor and thump on the door.
Nelson and his boys were close enough when the junkie walked through the main door to let it just about shut before making a move, which Nelson thought would give the dealer time to put down his phone and walk away from the small screen. He was dead right. At the last possible moment Nelson caught the door with the end of his fingers and waited, knowing there was no way the wreck they’d seen at the door would run up the stairs. Right again. The junkie was trying to take the lift, and they heard him pushing the buttons repeatedly and muttering to himself.
Nelson looked round and nodded, pushed the door open again and walked up behind the junkie, who was still cursing the speed of the lifts.
He knew before he turned that more than one person had walked up behind him – and too quietly to be innocent citizens. He decided not to face whomever it was and stared at the lift doors, listening to the winding gear finally lower the carriage down to the ground floor.
‘Got a light, pal?’ Nelson asked without a note of tension in his voice.
The boy had to look round then and took in the four balaclavas and baseball bats. He was coming apart already and needed a shot more than anything. He was afraid but knew he had fuck all but the price of a couple of bags; if this team robbed him there was no way Cue Ball would give him anything on tick. His addiction was greater than his fear of the violence that might be dropped on him if things went up the swanny. The young man had lost all self-respect a long time ago and pleading was all he had left.
‘For fuck’s sake, boys, just a wee br
eak please. I’m a fuckin’ junkie; I need fixed up – please.’
Nelson smiled. This was it; this was what got him going – the fear in those eyes, weakness that could be exploited. He was as much of a junkie as the shaking remains of the human being he was tormenting, and he stared at the boy, who was pleading to keep the price of his drug of choice. This was all he had left. Some people looked forward to their next drink, sexual encounter or football match, but for Nelson all of that had been burned out of him in Afghanistan. It frightened him in his quieter moments, but for now he felt alive.
He felt the stab of pain in his gut again, winced, and fat beads of sweat popped out of his forehead. He did his best not to show it – weakness was not an option, and any such signs would be like blood in the water when sharks were around.
He pulled himself straight, trying to ignore the knot that seemed to pulse currents of pain deep in his midriff. But Clark saw the milky pallor in the exposed part of Nelson’s face and wondered. He’d spotted it a couple of times before, and he’d started to try and guess what the problem was.
Nelson concentrated on the junkie. ‘We’re here for your pal up the stairs; wouldn’t dirty my fuckin’ hands on you, sunshine.’
The junkie realised that the accents were Irish. His education hadn’t got him as far as recognising that there was the north and the republic, so for him they were just Irish.
His throat tightened when he remembered there was a story going the rounds that there were some mad Irish fuckers who didn’t seem to take any prisoners. It was at that point in his thoughts that Nelson headbutted him so hard the back of his skull rattled off the concrete wall at the side of the lift. The lights went out for the junkie as the four men walked past him and entered the lift.
‘At least he gets to keep his fuckin’ money,’ Fisher sneered and gobbed on the half-conscious addict whose shit life had just taken a turn for the worse.
Cue Ball was a careful man, and he had to be, given the trouble he’d had in his life. Everyone taking a shot at him because he was a short-arse, the police sticking him inside twice just for selling the punters what they wanted. He was human though, and like everyone else he made the occasional slip. The junkie was a regular and although he’d let him into the stair, he should have double-checked with a look through the spyhole in the door, because you never knew when some demented bastard would try and rip off your stash. Cue Ball had presumed this one was far too much of a fuckwit to try anything so macho. The result of this carelessness was that when he opened the door, McLean hit him square on the end of his bearded chin. As he crashed down, Nelson and his crew rushed in and closed the door behind them.
McLean grabbed Cue Ball by the collar of his shirt, dragged him through to the living room and dropped him in front of the TV. Clark turned the sound up on Ray Winstone growling on about what a great deal it was to bet on some match.
‘Don’t you think that’s a mercenary fuck-and-a-half trying to get the punters to part with their money on gambling? It pisses me off that – all that money and he’s working for a fuckin’ bookie.’
Most men would have stayed where they were after the haymaker McLean had landed on him, but Cue Ball was mental. The sight of four balaclavas and baseball bats should have been enough to give him pause, but for someone like Cue Ball it was just another challenge to add to a long list in his life. He came off the carpet like a scorched wildcat, and at least for a moment he surprised the visitors.
On the way up he grabbed an empty wine bottle and without losing momentum he whacked it across the bridge of McLean’s nose. The bottle smashed and McLean groaned, sinking to his knees as blood seeped out through the woollen balaclava. Cue Ball was left with the neck of the bottle and enough of a jagged edge to make the Belfast men think twice.
He backed into a corner and rubbed his chin with one hand as he waved the remains of the bottle about to keep his guests focused. Clark and Fisher kept him trapped in the corner as Nelson pulled the injured man onto the settee. He lifted up the balaclava, and although there was enough blood to keep a vampire happy, it was no more than a broken nose, and McLean had suffered worse in his days in the paramilitaries.
He patted McLean on the back, looked up at Cue Ball and admitted to himself that the stories about the short-arsed little runt in the corner had been all too true. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Cue Ball was smiling at him. That took balls – or was he just completely off his fucking trolley?
Cue Ball nodded towards McLean. ‘How’d you like that, petal? Anytime you want some more just give me a call ’cause I’m always in, and I get a bit fuckin’ bored at times.’ His smile broadened, and he started to bob up and down on his toes like a boxer.
‘You really take the fuckin’ biscuit, my friend,’ Nelson said, in part expressing some admiration for the nutcase who clearly believed he could win. And that’s when he had an idea. The original plan had been to make pâté out of Cue Ball’s head, but Nelson was smart enough to know that although they could get the job done, it would be messy. He remembered his old army mentor’s words: ‘If there’s an easy way and a hard way to do a job, only a fuckin’ idiot does it the hard way.’
‘Put the glass down, take a seat and let’s talk.’ Nelson said it as calmly as he could muster. His gut hurt like hell and he wondered again if he had an ulcer.
He pulled off the balaclava, lit up a cigarette and offered the packet to Cue Ball, who’d stopped dancing around like Muhammad Ali. Cue Ball shrugged, took the packet and dropped the remains of the wine bottle on the carpet.
‘Fancy a cuppa, boys?’ he asked. ‘You must be fuckin’ knackered after all that.’ He said it as if his best friends in the world had just dropped in to watch the big match then turned the TV volume back to normal, went into the kitchen and flicked on the kettle to make a brew.
Nelson shook his head; before entering the flat he thought he’d seen them all, but this fuckin’ midget was something else. ‘Three sugars in mine,’ he called through the kitchen door and shrugged at the other three men in the room.
‘Sit down, boys. I’ll be through in a minute, and I’ll bring some cotton wool for the girl’s nose.’
Fisher and Clark pulled off their balaclavas and shook their heads in wonder at the man making their tea.
‘Do you believe this guy, Andy?’ Fisher said, still trying to make sense of it.
‘They always say the wee men are the fuckin’ ones to watch . . . well there’s the proof getting us a brew.’
‘I’m going through there to keep an eye on the bastard. He’ll probably piss in it or something.’
Cue Ball came back through and had opened a packet of shortbread, which he usually kept for special guests. He reckoned these Irish cowboys could be classed as special. ‘I’ll be fuckin’ mum if that’s alright with you?’ He poured the tea and sat down, slurping the brew wetly.
‘Come on then, tell me what the deal is. Old man Fleming and his favourite miscarriage of a son are missing in action.’ He looked for a reaction but Clark and Fisher didn’t even twitch. McLean was still nursing his nose so he definitely wasn’t going to act as spokesman. He’d worked out that Nelson was the pack leader and could see why. He was in a different league from the other three, who’d struggle to find the door without the hard man he’d decided to address. ‘My guess is your plan was that I’d be begging for mercy and then all the other dealers would just fall into line. Good plan.’ He nodded at Nelson and waited.
‘That was the plan right enough. But a wise man should always have the sense to change it if needs be.’ Nelson fired up another cigarette to go with the fresh brew and had the sensation of heat in the throbbing knot that was his stomach. ‘One way or the other we’re taking over the business. I guess putting you in the hospital would send the right message, but now we’ve met, just getting you on board would be good enough. What do you think, Rocky?’
Cue Ball liked the Rocky bit. It was respectful, and whatever they wanted to do, they now knew
Cue Ball Ross was no pushover.
‘I think that we could either take lumps out of each other or do some business. To tell the truth I was fuckin’ sick of the Flemings. They were greedy bastards, and all I need to know is that they can’t come back from whatever holiday camp they’re in.’ He bit down on another piece of shortbread, offered the plate round and continued. ‘All they have left are Joe’s youngest, the twins; they’re not long out of their teens and not ready to take on the world. The mother is a fuckin’ mouth, but that’s your problem. You supply me and don’t take the piss on prices and we can do business.’
He finished the last biscuit, feeling slightly guilty about his greed. ‘If I come on board then all the other dealers will fall into place. I’ll expect a discount of course for my cooperation.’ He sat back and waited.
Nelson felt sick and wanted to get back to the flat so he could swallow some gut tablets. ‘That’s okay with me. One of the boys will be round tomorrow to make the arrangements. Welcome aboard.’ He felt the pain subside and the relief eased the knotted muscles in his stomach.
Nelson started up the car, revved the engine and turned the heaters on full. ‘Well I didn’t expect that, but the result’s the thing.’
‘I’ll pay that fuckin’ boy scout back. We should have burned him,’ McLean said through gritted teeth, and he meant it. He was also questioning Nelson’s judgement without coming right out with it. No one had dared to do that before.
Nelson felt a trickle of sweat. Had they sensed his struggle with the pain in his gut? It was always the same, the fighting for power like rats in a sewer, ready to kill each other over a scrap of rotten food.
He stopped the car and looked at McLean, who was next to him in the front passenger seat.
Evidence of Death Page 10