Joe longed for the days when the city was bustling, when tramcars ruled the streets and the old neighbourhoods were in one piece. He even missed the thick grey fog that could blot out the sun and banish all but the hardiest behind closed doors. But it was gone forever, he knew, for it had been created by the marriage of the mist that rolled from the water with the thick smoke belching from the myriad of factory chimneys and household fires. Glasgow gave the world a word for this noxious substance; smog. The air was cleaner now, but as far as Joe was concerned, not necessarily sweeter.
There wasn’t another soul to be seen on the walkway and he knew he shouldn’t be in this lonely place without back-up, but he had agreed that this meeting would take place without the scrutiny of others. Norrie Kennedy was no longer a threat, but Barney Cable’s murder proved someone else most certainly was. Joe knew in his heart that Johnny Jones was behind it. He also knew that if there was a hit list, he was on it, and he had an automatic in his coat pocket just in case. It wasn’t the weapon with which he removed Tracy and the McGuiness brothers from this veil of tears. That particular firearm had been broken up and the pieces dropped from different bridges crossing the Clyde before he made his way to this rendezvous.
He felt a tinge of sadness as he thought of the young lives he had snuffed out. It had been necessary, however. It was also always the way it would end. The McGuinness brothers had been slated for death in Manchester – something to do with missing money – and Joe had agreed to carry out the contract in return for using them first. Tracy was trouble, always had been, but useful for this one job. All three would have died eventually, but Knight had got just a little too close, so Joe’s timetable had to be moved up. Even so, he never took murder lightly.
The walkway was dotted with old capstans, relics of when boats of all shapes and sizes used to tie themselves to the quay, and was long and straight, which was why he knew Bannatyne was approaching before the detective said anything.
‘Wasn’t sure you’d come, Joe.’
Joe turned to face Bannatyne and smiled, holding his hands out as if to show they were empty. ‘Why would I not? I am as concerned about these events as you.’
Bannatyne nodded and moved up beside Joe, inspecting the railing to ensure that it was free of bird shit before he rested the arms of his coat on it. He said nothing for a moment as he gazed at the darkening river. ‘I like this time of day, don’t know why.’
‘It is the light. On a day such as this, the light is…’ Joe searched for the right word, ‘… spectacular.’
‘Aye,’ said Bannatyne, looking at the buildings on the opposite bank, their walls stained red by the dying of the sun, their windows reflecting the lingering rays like neon. ‘What’s going on, Joe?’
‘I wish I knew,’ said the Tailor with a sigh.
Bannatyne turned to face the older man. ‘Who’s doing it? Who’s turning my town into the wild bloody west?’
Joe gave him a slight smile. ‘You wish me to turn grass, Jack?’
‘Do you know something?’
‘I have… suspicions.’
‘Then tell me.’
‘Why should I? We do not have a relationship, you and I.’
‘No, I’m not one of your tame coppers, that’s true. Never will be.’
Joe’s smile broadened. ‘Never is a long time, my friend. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?’
Bannatyne shook his head. ‘Joe, I like you. For a crook, you’re okay. But you’re still a crook…’
‘Ach,’ said Joe dismissively, ‘labels, labels. I am a businessman, that is all.’
‘Aye, but your business can hurt people.’
‘And what of the tobacco manufacturers and the arms dealers? Do they not hurt people? Yet they are ‘respectable.’ I provide some innocent fun – gambling, pleasures of the flesh.’
‘You exploit people’s weaknesses. And let’s not forget armed robbery and extortion. You’ve hurt a lot of people, Joe, or had them hurt. You’re an affable sort and you’re honourable in your way but you’re still a crook.’
‘Do you believe I have nothing to do with this?’
Bannatyne paused, and nodded. ‘Norrie Kennedy’s murder did make me think you had a hand in it, but Barney Cable was your pal. As I said, you’re an honourable sort in your way. You’d never hurt a pal.’
‘Barney was a good man.’
‘Good’s maybe stretching it a bit. I’d’ve put him away in a heartbeat, but he was a dying breed, I’ll grant you that.’
‘I am afraid you are right there. There is a new wind blowing in the city, Jack. I do not like what I smell on it.’
‘Then tell me what’s going on. Let me put a stop to it.’
‘Do you think you can?’
‘I can try.’
‘With arrests and the courts, with lawyers and evidence?’
‘With the law, yes.’
Joe shook his head. ‘Perhaps my way would be better.’
‘More guns, more killing? That’s never better, Joe.’
‘Ha! Without guns and killing where would we be, my friend? Remember, I am Polish. I saw what Hitler did, and without those guns and a lot of killing, he and his kind might yet be here today.’
‘That was war, Joe.’
‘And so is this.’
‘Innocent people…’
‘Innocent people die in war, you know that! Every day, somewhere in this world, innocent people are dying, backed by Governments and religion and commercial interests. The difference between those wars and mine is that we ensure that civilians do not get hurt. Unlike your “legal” wars.’
Bannatyne sighed. ‘I can’t let it happen, Joe. Just tell me what you know and let me try to end this carnage.’
‘And if you cannot?’
Bannatyne fell silent. He knew a bargain was being offered here. Joe would tell him what he knew and let the law take its course if Bannatyne could make a case stick. But if Bannatyne failed to gather the evidence to send the killers to jail, then Joe’s form of justice would take over. Joe wouldn’t trouble himself with legal niceties like evidence, corroboration or a jury of peers. Joe would be the judge and Joe would be the jury. The executioner would be some faceless, nameless gunman brought in from outside the city.
‘If I can’t follow this through, then let the good times roll,’ said Jack. Joe stared into his eyes and saw that the police officer meant what he said. He nodded.
‘Johnny Jones.’ he said. ‘He is putting together some deal for which he needs considerable investment.’
‘What kind of deal?’
‘That need not concern you.’
‘Joe…’
‘Do you want this information or not?’
Bannatyne nodded. He desperately wanted to know what Jones was cooking up, but he knew he could bide his time.
‘Anyway,’ Joe continued, ‘Norrie Kennedy did not wish to join and Barney was also hesitant. Neither of them had any love for Mister Jones. I believe that put them in the firing line.’
‘What about you? Are you involved in this deal? That why you won’t tell me about it?’
‘No, I have already declined. I will not tell you because that much of a grass I am not. I am only giving you Jones because I dislike this killing as much as you.’
‘Yet you’d happily continue it.’
‘Only one more – Johnny Jones. But I am willing to play it your way for now.’ Joe didn’t mention that he believed there was someone else behind Jones, someone who would also have to be dealt with if the time came.
‘What about this Andy Tracy and the other two, the Manchester lads? What’s their part in this?’
‘I believe Jones used Tracy as his trigger man in killing Norrie Kennedy. The two brothers were back-up and wheelman. There is always a back-up gun, as insurance against the trigger man getting cold feet.’
‘So why’d they get done?’
‘You were getting close, I believe. I would not have trusted Tracy, and there was no rea
son why Jones would. He’s no fool.’ The lies came easily to Joe’s lips, especially as they merged so seamlessly with the truth. He had been unwilling to falsely accuse Jones before, but Barney’s murder changed matters.
Bannatyne nodded thoughtfully. ‘It fits. We found a gun under a mattress in the caravan.’
Joe froze, but his expertise in dissemination prevented any shock from showing on his face.
‘The technicians are on it now, checking it against the bullets recovered from Kennedy’s body,’ Bannatyne said. ‘But my nose tells me it’s the murder weapon. It was sloppy of them – keeping it.’
Yes, thought Joe, very sloppy. The murder weapon couldn’t be traced to him, and he now knew for certain that he had done the right thing in removing Tracy from the picture.
‘So if Jones is on a spree, who’s next?’
‘I would imagine that would be me.’
Bannatyne’s eyebrows twitched and he unconsciously looked around, taking a slight step away from Joe, who smiled. ‘Don’t worry, my friend – I do not think it will be tonight.’
Bannatyne nodded and looked again at the water. The light had turned from red to grey and there was a chill rising from the river that had not been there before. He pulled his coat around him.
‘But, my friend,’ Joe said, ‘may I make a suggestion?’
Bannatyne nodded.
‘Be quick about gathering that proof. I have no intention of becoming a new notch on Johnny Jones’ gun. If he makes a move against me, our little arrangement is over.’
17
DAVIE LIKED TO take late night walks through the city streets. He liked the dark and he liked the quiet. He kept Abe on a lead because he still wasn’t confident enough to trust him not to run under the wheels of a bus. Abe didn’t seem to mind. He was happy to be out in the fresh air with Davie.
Davie didn’t know if it was the painkillers, but the ache in his ribs had lessened considerably in the two days since his encounter with Boyle, convincing him that there was no permanent damage done. He still felt a dull ache whenever he walked, but he refused to give into it. To take his mind off his bruises, he thought of Audrey. It had taken him most of the day to pluck up the courage to phone her and when he finally did he’d had no idea what to say.
‘It’s Davie,’ he’d said when he heard her voice. ‘From the other night.’
‘I know,’ she’d answered, and then went quiet. He knew she was waiting for him to speak but he couldn’t think of anything at first.
‘So,’ he’d said, ‘you okay?’
‘Yes, thanks to you. How about you?’
‘Yeah, fine. He kicked me pretty hard but I’ll live.’
There was another silence and behind her he could hear voices, phones, and the clatter of typewriters. He swallowed, wishing he’d written down stuff to say. Might’ve been easier.
‘Anyway,’ he’d said, ‘thought I’d phone, make sure you’re okay.’
‘I’m fine,’ she’d said and then she waited again. Davie stood with his ear to the phone, staring down at her business card in his other hand, his thumb flicking the edge. In his mind he heard Rab’s voice telling him to talk to her, for God’s sake.
‘Good,’ he’d said, wishing he’d at least spoken to Bobby about this. Bobby had the patter that women liked. Davie was useless. Say something, Rab’s voice was yelling, just so she doesn’t think you’re a complete retard.
‘So, listen,’ he’d said, ‘I was thinking…’
‘Yes?’
He licked his lips. ‘So I was thinking…’ Okay, Davie, she knows you’ve been thinking, well done, but what exactly were you thinking? Spit it out, man.
‘I was thinking that maybe we could… em… maybe meet up. Or something. You and me.’
She fell silent again and Davie felt his heart sink. She’s going to say no, he told himself, of course she’s going to say no. Why the hell would she want to meet up with you? She probably thinks you’re a thug, just like Boyle and Sinclair. And maybe she’s not wrong. Get used to the idea, Davie, she’s going to say no.
And then she said yes, she’d love to meet up.
‘Or something,’ she said and he could hear the smile in her voice. ‘You and me…’
Davie felt a wide smile break out on his face and his heart, already banging away, picked up the tempo. ‘Okay,’ he’d said, ‘Good. Great.’
Davie smiled again as he thought about it. He wondered if he should risk breaking into a jog, just a short one, but as if in warning, a stabbing pain shot through his ribs. Too soon, he thought. A walk is enough for now.
Duke Street was quiet, only the occasional vehicle sliding past. Davie had two options for his evening stroll. One walk took him westwards, towards the city centre and past the hospital, an eye-catching building that Joe told him was built originally for the city’s poor in the days before the NHS. Nearby was the abattoir, a large, ugly, concrete monstrosity which gave Davie the shivers. He had seen cattle being herded up a sloping walkway into the building and had felt pity for them, for they had no idea what lay ahead. Occasionally one would break free and career down Duke Street before it was caught. The sprawl of the Tennents Caledonian Brewery was further on, a blaze of light all night, and then the Great Eastern, a large, crumbling building that Joe told him had been built as a mill but was now a dosshouse.
Joe had a vast repository of facts about his adopted city. He had once taken Davie and Rab on a walk around the perimeter of a small housing estate near the junction of Duke Street and High Street, searching a high stone wall for bullet holes left by the IRA in the 1920s. Back then, it had been the site of the city’s North Prison, and Joe told them they had been trying to free one of their men from police custody and had ambushed the van here. Davie smiled as he recalled Joe’s excitement when he found a series of holes in the sandstone.
However, Davie did not go west that night. He turned right at the top of Sword Street to head eastwards, the decision made more by Abe’s nose than anything else. The shops were closed now and the street yellowed by the overhead lights. In the flats above the shops, lights blazed behind curtains and blinds. Some of the lights flickered as decent folk watched television. Decent folk leading decent lives.
Luca Vizzini was just closing up as Davie and Abe reached the café. He’d pulled the metal grate down over the front door and was locking it when he saw Davie and Abe coming towards him. His dark features broke into a wide grin and he said, ‘Hey, Davie, whaddaya hear, whaddaya say?’ Davie could still hear a trace of spaghetti and meatballs in Luca’s New York accent, even when he was trying for James Cagney. Sometimes he knew the Sicilian exaggerated his native accent because it was good for business and it made him more colourful, which, in a city of grey buildings and grey skies, was always welcome. ‘How you doin, kid?’
‘Getting there, Luca.’
Luca bent down to pat Abe’s head. ‘Hey, boy – lemme see if…’ Luca rooted around in his jacket pocket. ‘… ah, si… there...’ He produced a piece of chocolate wrapped in silver paper, which he unwrapped and fed to Abe. Luca smiled and nodded in satisfaction as the dog wolfed down the treat. ‘Good boy, that’s a good boy. So, you going for a walk?’ When Davie nodded, Luca went on, ‘You know, Duke Street is the longest street in the country?’
Davie smiled. ‘Joe tell you that?’
Luca grinned back. ‘Yeah. What can I say? He’s up there reading the Encyclopaedia and I got my nose buried in Mickey Spillane.’
They shared a smile as they thought of Joe’s breadth of knowledge, and how willingly he shared it. Luca’s expression darkened. ‘It’s a shame what happened to Barney, eh?’
Davie nodded.
‘And those guys in the caravan. Did you know them?’
‘I met Andy Tracy once,’ said Davie. ‘Don’t know the other two. Not local.’
‘Ah, si, si, they were from down south. Still, terrible business – a helluva thing.’
Luca seemed genuinely distressed by Sunday’s even
ts.
‘And you had trouble yourself, I hear,’ Luca motioned towards the bruises on Davie’s face, ‘with Sinclair and Boyle?’
‘A bit.’
‘They were here tonight, both of them. Sinclair was looking like shit, I’ve gotta say.’
‘I got in a few before Boyle taught me a wee lesson,’ admitted Davie.
Luca’s face turned thoughtful. ‘Be careful around Boyle, Davie. He’s a no good son-of-a-bitch. I got the feeling they were here looking for you, or Rab. For those guys it ain’t over. Sometimes I think they are more Sicilian than me. Vendetta, Davie – do you know this word?’
Davie nodded.
‘It’s not a good thing, and I was raised with it. It is destructive. It eats everything around it, leaves nothing. Watch your back,
kid.’
Luca gave Abe one last pat before turning and walking away to wherever he had his Volvo estate parked. Davie watched him go then resumed his own walk in the opposite direction. It was Abe’s low growl that made Davie stop, a soft footfall that made him turn around in time to see Boyle and Sinclair coming out of a closemouth behind him. The thought that they were waiting for him flashed briefly in his mind, but the look of surprise on Boyle’s face confirmed that this meeting was pure chance. Sinclair’s face was swollen, his nose taped up, his puffy eyes and cracked lip making any kind of expression virtually impossible.
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