Evidence of Death

by Peter Ritchie

  ‘Okay, guys – settle down. It looks like he’s getting breakfast, but keep on your toes. Make sure we’re ready to shoot some pictures if anyone else turns up.’

  McGovern sighed happily and opened the flask of sweet black coffee that kept him going through the long slog of surveillance work. He could relax for a bit – the responsibility for watching the front door of the café had been handed over to the ‘eyeball’, a two-man team watching the door that would call any movement back onto the street by the target.

  Nelson trawled through the sports section of the paper. It was one of the few things in life that gave him a sense of quiet pleasure. He was a man who always did the sport first and then got into the news, which these days tended to be mostly bad.

  He lost interest, ignored the paper for a minute and thought about the positives in his life. He had the problem with his gut, but he’d had the tests and if it was an ulcer then at least they could do something about it. He just hated the idea of anyone having to look after him. Apart from that, the money was pouring in from the dope business, and he thought they might branch out soon into property or the escort trade. It was a good way to launder the cash, and there were plenty of immigrant women available who would work for peanuts. The police had recently taken out a heavy dealer in West Lothian, which had created a shortage, so Nelson had bumped his prices and the profits had just kept heading skywards. He’d recruited as many dealers as he needed to move the gear coming in from Belfast and wasn’t that concerned about the rest, as they were no threat. With the demise of Joe Fleming the competition was mostly low level and they helped divert attention away from his own business. He threw DC Monk the occasional dealer, including the West Lothian man, but knew that there had to be interest in him at some point if it hadn’t started already.

  His breakfast arrived just as the phone rang. It was a withheld number and he knew that the call was long overdue.

  ‘How are you?’ the voice asked in a polished home-counties accent.

  Nelson looked up at the waitress and returned her smile but he couldn’t compete with the dazzle factor. He waited till she’d walked back behind the counter before he looked round the café and confirmed it was empty apart from an old regular who was only interested in his racing section.

  ‘I’m okay. Enjoying the life here and think it’ll do for a bit. What about you?’

  ‘Need to meet. Things are heating up across the water so we’ll need your involvement.’

  Nelson wanted his breakfast and there was nothing more to say. ‘Okay, I’ll meet you as arranged. Text me with the “when” and I’ll be there.’

  ‘It’ll be tomorrow and I’m on my way.’

  The phone went dead and Nelson started on his breakfast. He went back to the sports pages and propped the paper up against the condiment dishes so he could read and eat at the same time.

  He wolfed down the food. His stomach was pain free and his mood had lifted like the weather outside, the sun finally out after days of wind and rain. He shoved the plate back when he was finished, wiped his mouth with a napkin and cursed the smoking ban as he sipped his strong black tea and went back to the news section of his paper.

  He had done no more than scan the front page – which was filled with the latest attack on the question of independence, outlining why Scotland would sink into the Atlantic if it wasn’t joined up to its cousins south of the border – when he heard the door of the café click open and the brief sound of rushing traffic before it fell shut again.

  He didn’t know the two men who’d walked into the café, but they were there to see him, there was no question about it. There was the quick scan and when their eyes settled on Nelson it was as good as a big fuck-off sign saying ‘It’s you, pal’. He had to make a quick decision on whether to move before they did. Their hands were clear of their pockets and empty, so they’d no more time to reach for a weapon than he had to pull the hunting knife from the back of his waistband. They were a strange-looking pair – the short one had a face that looked like it had been run over by a steamroller, and the other one was about twice the size and didn’t seem to have any eyes. They were cool enough though and looked like they were professionals. In another environment they might have been almost comical, but Nelson knew that they weren’t there to try out their latest slapstick routine.

  He waited to see what they wanted and then he would decide whether to have a fight to the death inside a small café in Leith Walk.

  ‘From the eyeball, that’s two males entered the café. We have descriptions and photographs. To the operational commander, any instructions?’

  McGovern felt a tingle of anticipation. Always that feeling that it might be something good, something big. You never knew. ‘To the eyeball, get a footman to pass the café again and see if they’re there to meet the target.’

  The female surveillance officer carrying what looked like a baby and a shopping bag passed the large window and saw the two unidentified men had pulled into the booth with Nelson. ‘Confirming that the two UDMs have joined the target.’

  McGovern smiled; it always felt good to bring something new back to the intelligence officers and analysts. They had a pretty good idea of Nelson’s main associates so these two might be a step forward.

  ‘Make sure to get good photographs of the UDMs when they depart, and I want to get a footman behind them to see what wheels they’ve got.’

  The big gorilla slid into the booth first and said nothing. The shorter man moved in beside him, facing Nelson, who sipped his tea and decided to let them talk first; after all he hadn’t invited them, so he’d wait.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ Short-arse said it to Nelson and fixed him with a hard stare.

  Nelson studied him for a minute and didn’t like the man’s black eyes. They seemed to know what he was thinking. ‘I’m sorry but I don’t watch the telly much and never go to the cinema. What have you been in?’

  Magic McGinty sat back, laughed out loud, and it was genuine. ‘Fuckin’ magic.’ He turned to his minder. ‘What did I tell you, Gordon? This one’s a bit special.’

  Gordon didn’t twitch and the reason was simple: he was basically a nice guy, but the only way he could earn a living was by using violence or frightening people, which was usually enough to do the trick. He’d grown up with Magic and had stuck by him through all the gang wars. Although Gordon hardly had two brain cells to think with, Magic had never forgotten him, and when he made the big time, he’d given Gordon the job as his personal minder, though the truth was that he hardly needed one, being a formidable and violent bastard himself. Gordon had been nothing but pleasant when Eddie Fleming had visited Magic, but for Nelson he’d been told just to look mental, which meant saying nothing that would expose his high-pitched voice.

  Nelson eyed the big man and had to admit to himself that he looked a handful – if anything kicked off he would have a lot to deal with.

  Magic put his elbows on the table and drilled Nelson again with those bullet-hole eyes. He let enough time pass to see the Belfast man start to get uncomfortable and nodded before he spoke.

  Nelson had been mesmerised by the eyes, and although he’d never been hypnotised he thought later that it must have felt something like his experience with the Glasgow man. He was so distracted that he never saw the movement of Magic’s left hand below the table.

  Magic had come dressed in a long, dark bespoke overcoat, which kept out the bitter cold. It also allowed him to conceal a sawn-off in a specially designed internal pocket.

  The sensation of something pushing too hard against his balls brought Nelson back to full attention. He sat still and worked out that if they’d come to kill him he would already be dead and they’d have been on their way west again. Whatever their intention they were going to talk first, and he’d have no chance of drawing his knife before the madman opposite blew off his gonads.

  ‘My name’s McGinty but everyone calls me Magic.’ He said it as if they were discussing the weather. His
eyes didn’t seem to move and Nelson felt like a snake being eyed up for the kill by a mongoose. ‘I’d like you to call me Magic. Is that okay, Billy?’

  Nelson nodded and replied as evenly as he could, ‘That’s fine for me . . . Magic.’

  ‘Now I want you to understand that the hard thing you feel against your groin is not an approach from someone in the gay community. Do you understand?’

  ‘Got it, Magic,’ Nelson said, keeping his voice and tone as steady as before.

  ‘We have to sort a little problem out, but before we start I just want you to know that I’m a sincere but violent cunt and I will kill you if I’m not happy with the outcome of this meeting.’

  He was as cool in a pressure situation as Nelson had ever seen, even in combat, which meant he was probably mad.

  Magic called the waitress over and ordered a peppermint tea each for him and Gordon. When she’d taken the order he looked back at Nelson and fixed him again with those eyes. ‘Joe Fleming and the waste of space that he claimed as his son bought their gear from me. I just delivered a load to them and it appears that, prior to paying for said goods, you decided to stick your Prod nose in and send them to Butlins in the sky.’

  The herbal teas arrived quickly, delivered by a waitress who looked as if she couldn’t wait to take refuge again behind the counter; there was something in Magic’s eyes she found fascinating but profoundly scary.

  Magic took a sip of the tea and winked over the rim of his cup at Nelson – before jabbing the sawn-off deeper into his groin, making him wince. ‘Now, I’m out of pocket by quite a wedge, but I’m more concerned with my image than the money. I just can’t have people thinking I’m a fuckin’ charity, can I, Gordon?’ The big man shook his head once but kept it zipped as instructed. ‘What am I going to do?’ He sighed as if he was speaking to a child. ‘The choices are that you either pay up or you start buying your gear from me. Simple really.’

  He sat back and let the man have time to think. It was a big decision.

  What Magic didn’t know was that Nelson was struggling with a problem and Magic had just offered him the solution. ‘Suits me, and I’ll take the gear – the same quantities that Joe took from you and maybe an increase once we get going.’

  Magic hadn’t expected it to be so straightforward and he tried to decide whether the man opposite was taking the piss. It didn’t seem likely, particularly when two cartridges were twenty-four inches from ending his sex life.

  ‘What about the man that supplies you at the moment?’

  ‘Fuck him.’

  Magic looked into his eyes and believed him. He couldn’t quite figure Nelson out, and he’d have to keep a close eye on him, but it was business and he was satisfied with the deal so far. There was something that nagged him about the Belfast man though. It was vague but it was there, and that always meant there was a problem. But Magic liked the occasional problem – it kept him sharp. He knew what had killed Joe and Danny Fleming – going soft, forgetting that they were in the hardest game of all, where your enemies were all around you and your best friend might turn out to be your executioner.

  ‘Okay, one of my representatives will be in touch tomorrow, and can I say it’s been a pleasure doing business with you.’ He paused and jabbed a finger at Nelson. ‘Just remember I’m not Joe Fleming. I’ll feed you to the pigs the first time I think you’re trying it on. At the end of the day you’re a Belfast Prod and my name’s McGinty, so it is what it is.’

  He stood up and the shotgun was already back in his pocket. ‘Take care, Billy. And by the way, you look a little pale. You should try and eat a better diet. Maybe a bit of porridge in the morning.’

  He turned, walked into the street and was gone.

  The two Glasgow men headed for their car and McGinty felt it had gone rather well. Gordon wasn’t so sure. ‘What about Eddie Fleming?’

  ‘Fuck him. This is business. I can’t help it if old Joe was a twat,’ said Magic, with his usual degree of cold-hearted logic.

  The eyeball’s voice crackled over the air. ‘The two UDMs have exited the café and are heading north on Leith Walk. I have them.’

  McGovern emptied the dregs of his coffee onto the pavement through the car window. He was well away from the café and couldn’t see what was happening, but he didn’t need to. The foot team were on them, and Nelson was still in his seat. They had to get a car number for the UDMs or something that would give them a name.

  The foot team labelled the two men as little and large and they followed them to the BMW parked up in Iona Street.

  ‘Got the car and number.’ The eyeball waited for an instruction.

  ‘That’ll do. Rejoin the team and we’ll wait on the target. Pass the car number to the ranch and let’s see who these two are.’

  ‘Will do. Can tell you that they’re Glasgow boys alright. Could hear them talking about Celtic’s domination of the league and what a bunch of gangsters Rangers are.’

  ‘Takes all types – even Weegies,’ McGovern said with a smile.

  Nelson let out a long sigh and wondered whether he’d just imagined what had taken place. He ordered more tea. He’d just survived a meeting with a nutter so he decided that he should be thankful, and Magic had given him more than he could know after the call he’d taken earlier.

  When the tea and fresh toast arrived Billy relaxed again and got back to the paper. He’d done the first page then flicked open the second and felt his throat constrict when he saw it. A headliner telling the citizenry that there was a gang war in Edinburgh over the drugs business. The report mentioned that two prominent Edinburgh gangsters were missing and ‘police sources’ had told the reporter that they believed the men had been murdered. Nelson realised that whoever the reporter was they had good sources, both inside the police and on his side of the fence.

  He read on and saw that the last two paragraphs were designed to put the frighteners right up the reading public. Other sources had told the reporter that a ‘Belfast terror gang’ had settled in Edinburgh and were behind the acts of violence that were taking place across the city. The reporter’s name was Jacquie Bell.

  ‘Fuckin’ bitch.’ He slammed the table, but he hadn’t noticed the waitress approach to clear his plates.

  He looked up to find her smile had disappeared at seeing something in the customer she didn’t like. He’d always seemed a quiet man and handsome; in fact she’d hoped he’d ask her out. But in that one moment she witnessed the other side of Billy Nelson and that was enough.

  He was startled by her appearance. ‘I’m sorry, I never saw you there. Just something upset me.’

  She said it was no problem, but the warmth was gone, and he felt ashamed that she’d seen what he really was. He felt the dull throb in his gut and was angry. He’d been fine, but it had only taken a few lines in a paper to crash him back into the real world he inhabited.

  He was running the words through his mind, analysing what they meant, and felt pissed off at the reporter. There was a bigger problem, though – she must have had good police sources, which meant they had to have a team interested in him already. It might not be surveillance, but there had to be something on the go.

  He ground his teeth at the thought that he was paying Donnie Monk a small fortune and there’d been no warning.

  ‘Fuck.’ He said it quietly, but he needed to get it out. He knew that police attention wasn’t the end of the world – it was just another problem to be dealt with, but he had a lot coming into play and didn’t want them in the way just yet. The time would come, but it had to be on his terms.

  Nelson left the paper lying on the table, threw some notes down and promised himself he’d never go back to the café and face that waitress again.

  She watched him leave and felt that another one of her many little dreams had been nothing more than an illusion.

  He walked out onto the pavement and wondered if there was surveillance on him. Hard to tell, and he knew he had to avoid letting his imagination run wil
d, seeing police when they weren’t there.

  Some people became obsessed that the police were all over their lives when it was no more than imagination. Every criminal, even the pettiest felon, thought there was a team on them and that their phones were bugged, but as a Belfast boy he knew that you could still function even with police attention – you just had to be a bit clever. He was keeping his hands off potential evidence as much as possible and, if they were watching, what would they see? He’d decided to keep well away from handling the dope and let the others take the hit if it happened. They could watch all they wanted – he was careful to keep a firewall between him and any problems. If he needed to make sure he wasn’t being watched he could lose a tail for as long as he needed. The rest of the time they could do what the fuck they wanted as far as he was concerned.

  He wandered slowly up the Walk and stared in a few windows to see if he could see anything behind him, but there was nothing obvious. His phone rang and he took the call.

  ‘It’s Dougie. Some fucker gave Andy a right hiding last night and he’s in the Infirmary. What do you want me to do?’

  Nelson could hear the worry in his voice. He squeezed his eyes shut, felt the throbbing pain in his gut intensify and answered coldly, ‘Meet me in Hanover Street – the usual place in about an hour.’

  Clark was pissing Nelson off as it was. He could see the doubt and questions in his eyes every time he gave him an order. Now the stupid fuck was in a hospital bed because somehow or other he’d let his guard down. Nelson had already decided that Clark was becoming surplus to requirements and now it was just a case of deciding how he got rid of him.

  He put the phone down and looked for a taxi. There were plenty about, including the one with one of the surveillance team driving. He flagged a taxi with a driver who’d definitely eaten too many pies.