by Jack Dickson
More humming ... different pitch.
There was a sense he was now interrupting something, would continue to interrupt as long as he remained in the cell ...
... and a sense his presence no longer even registered. The mobile slick in his grasp, Jas moved out onto the walk-way.
“The piss-artist formerly known as Neil Johnstone ...” Stevie was shaking his shaggy head. “But the way he runs this Hall’s got less tae dae wi’ trances ...” Frown. “... an’ more tae dae wi’ his pal there: Johnstone’s maybe taken a vow, but Wullie husney – ex-middle weight, he wiz sayin’ ...”
Jas walked into the adjacent cell. He didn’t want to know ...
... nothing anyone in here told him made any sense. Contradictions twisted and tangled themselves into an unintelligible knot.
Johnstone ... drugs ... McGhee ... the Hadrian break-in ... Hamster ... the Hadrian break-in ... Dalgleish ...
Speculation.
Rumour ...
... everything was unreliable.
One detail he could clarify. Jas sat on the bunk and punched in the number of London Road Police Station.
DI McLeod answered on the second ring.
He identified himself, unnecessarily.
Silence ...
He could hear faint noise in the background, over the sound of breathing: typing, the low hum of a laser-printer – distant, muted voices. “If ya canny talk, ah can ...”
Sigh. “I’m alone – and I know where you are ...”
“Last year. Before the summer.” No time for pleasantries. “Hadrian Security’s headquarters in Livingston had a break-in.
“What?”
“Hadrian ...” Jas sighed. “... ah need tae know whit was taken ...”
“Slow down and say all that again.”
Jas frowned, did as he was asked.
“Hold on ...”
Eyes flicked to Stevie’s leathered back. As he waited, time played its usual Barlinnie tricks. The mobile grew warm in his fist. His bottom lip began to ache. Eventually:
“You sure you’ve got this right?”
He moved the phone closer to his ear. “Maybe it wiz earlier – or later – in the year, but there canny be that many break-ins at ...”
“According to the PNC, there were none.”
He tensed.
“There’s no record of any break-in at any premises belonging to Hadrian Security Solutions last year ... or the year before ... or this year. I checked. Have you got your facts right?”
No recorded crime: either Paul McGhee and David Hamilton were consummate con-artists and were making the whole thing up, or the break-in at Hadrian headquarters had purposely gone unreported. He patted pockets for cigarettes.
Stevie stuck a limp roll-up in his mouth, lit it and turned to resume sentry-duty.
Jas grabbed a leathered arm. He needed someone else to hear this.
Stevie sank to his hunkers, brown eyes shining with curiosity and suspicion.
Jas held the mobile between them.
“Sounds like someone’s been having you on, Jas. Maxwell Fulton runs a tight ship, down there in Livingston ...” Pause. “... you should know – you’re at present part of his ... cargo.”
“Who the fuck’s ...?”
“Head of Hadrian Security Solutions – and a couple of other thriving commercial ventures, if the financial pages of The Scotsman and the FT Index are anything to go by ...”
Commercial ventures ...
... Pioneering Security Solutions and mission statements.
A skeleton staff.
No resident nurse.
No resident governor.
No basic human rights.
Hadrian were using the Bar-L as a guinea pig.
“... and doing a good job, from all accounts.”
Penal innovation slid into another strategy, and gave a whole knew meaning to insider dealing. “There’s mair drugs in here than fuckin’ Possil ...”
“Par for the course ...” Pause. “Hard to eradicate that, Jas – you know how things ...”
“Hadrian officers are supplying the stuff!”
Silence.
He didn’t want to believe it either, but Neil Johnstone and Stevie had no reason to lie. The security company, on the other hand, had a share price at stake and a reputation to protect. “Hadrian are bringin’ heroin in here – ah’m no’ sure if it’s some radical strategy tae keep things quiet, or fur the cash, but ...”
“You’re serious?”
He gripped the mobile. “’Course ah’m fuckin’ serious! Ah ...”
“You have proof?”
Jas frowned.
“Names, dates – how the stuffs getting in?”
He had nothing concrete.
“Has this anything to do with that ... drugs dealer you were interested in – Paul ... what was his name?”
His lips tightened around the cigarette’s filter. Nothing to do with Paul McGhee ...
... and everything to do with how Hadrian were running the Bar-L.
Movement at his side.
Stevie left the crouch, darting to the cell door.
“Jas? You still there?”
“Aye ...” Proof.
Proof.
He stared at Stevie’s broad back, then the motion of a large palm.
Ann talked on, voice lower now. “Get me hard evidence of Hadrian’s complicity in any drug dealing and I can ...” She was mid-sentence when he severed the connection. Jas stared at Stevie.
Brown eyes glowed chestnut and ebony by turns. Apologetic. “Think they’re wantin’ their phone back.”
He got up from the bunk.
“So whit happens noo?”
Jas glanced down at the mobile.
Drugs were part of prison life.
He was part of prison life.
The word of a prisoner was nothing ...
... without proof. And there were other matters at stake here. He looked at Stevie then the phone. “We get this back tae Buddah next door – an’ we get back tae B-Hall.”
As they walked through gate after gate and across a darkening courtyard. Jas watched the way Stevie’s deltoids moved beneath the biker’s jacket. He tried to concentrate ...
... Neil Johnstone’s denial of last night refused to gel.
Why should the man lie?
He had nothing to lose ...
... or prove ...
... he pushed the thought aside and focused his mind on the other reason he had visited the eerie cell.
Hamster ... Paul ... break-ins ...
DI Ann McLeod was right: he had no evidence, concerning the drugs rackets.
The Hadrian break-in was another matter.
The past two years of company searches and absentee fathers receded in the face of eight years of police training.
Paul McGhee had obviously brought himself to the attention of Hadrian officers by bragging to other prisoners about the Livingston job.
A job the security company had failed to report.
Not worth the hassle of reporting?
Ahead, Stevie had paused.
Jas broke into a jog.
The pale brow furrowed in concentration. “Whit’s really goin’ on here, Jas-man?”
Breath condensed in the air between them. He shook his head. “Nae idea ...”
The brow furrowed further. Then a hand on his face.
Jas flinched.
The hand remained where it was. then gently traced the still swollen outline of his bottom lip. Low words. “Wullie sez Johnstone hud nothin’ tae dae wi’ whit happened tae you.”
Jas seized a wrist, thumb brushing white scar tissue. Dusky air froze on his skin. He released the wrist and moved back, staring at the man wearing his biker’s jacket – the only man he’d known who filled it the way he did.
Mumbled words. “If ah find the bastards who took you fae the cell ah’ll ...”
“No’ your problem, pal!” Stevie’s anger was both touching and dangerous. Nei
ther reaction was useful, right now. Jas scowled. “C’mon.” He strode towards the entrance to B-Hall, pushing last night to where it sat most easily.
If there had been a wheel, Hamster would have been on it.
Jas watched the small figure in the padded jacket pace for another circuit, then walked into the cell.
Eyes widening. Headphones ripped from ears. “Well? Is he aff my back?”
A sour laugh. “Naw, but ah think we ken why he’s oan it!”
Jas shot Stevie a warning glance. He sat down on an untidily made cot. “Ah want ye tae go an’ find Mr Dalgleish ...”
“No way, man!” Horror scuttled across the rodent features, dragging panic in its wake. “Ah’m no ...”
“Shut up an’ listen! Go see him, an’ tell him ah’ve got the PC.” He glanced from a rat-like relieved face to a pale, angry one. “Tell him Paul’s bin in touch wi’ me, an’ ah’m handlin’ negotiations.”
“Whit ye ...?”
“If he wants it that bad ...” He fingered his bottom lip.
“Ah ...” Understanding. “Fierce, man!” A hand through stepcut hair. “You an’ ...” Nod behind. “... the big guy set tae sort him oot?”
“Jist dae it!” Jas glared at Hamster.
Rodent confusion. “Whit ye gonny ...?” Head shake. “... this is aw’ beyond me.” Rodent-panic. “Ah’ll no’ need tae own up tae onythin’, will ah? Ah’m in enough shite as it, whit wi’ the ...”
“Has Dalgleish mentioned turnin’ ye in ?”
Uncertain. “Naw, but ...”
“He wants the polis kept oota this, Hamster. Whit diz that tell ye?” Answer from an unexpected source:
“The hard drive wis full, ye said? Oan this ... affy valuable PC?”
Rodent-nod.
Jas let Stevie run with thoughts already forming in his own head.
“The hospitals ur always doin’ that – ah read in the paper aboot all these PCs they dumped? Folk bought them at car boot sales ... fulla medical records an’ personal details – confidential-stuff ... “
He glanced left.
Stevie’s eyes glowed. “... an’ that tells me Dalgleish’s goat somethin’ else, apart fae a break-in, tae hide.”
Twenty-One
TWO BELLS LATER:
“Ye said we!“
“Ah meant me!”
Stevie’s brown eyes an unconvinced, burning ochre.
Jas stared. The memory of last night smouldered, stoked each time clothes came into contact with his body. Stevie’s fury was an ignition he couldn’t risk: the man had already had a final warning, from fan Dalgleish.
Burning ochre sparked. “This is aw’ wrang, Jas-man – ye canny dae deals wi’ a bastard like him!” Flaring. “Ye’ve no’ even goat the fuckin’ PC!”
He looked away from the eyes. “He disney ken that.”
Stevie’s fists were clenched, his broad body rigid.
Jas tried a smile. “Ah ken whit ah’m doin’ – ah ken the way his mind works, ah ...” Mhairi’s words. “... can talk the way he talks.”
Sceptical snort.
His eyes flicked up.
A scowl twisted Stevie’s features. “Wance polis always polis?”
Jas mirrored the scowl, wondering about the truth in the words. “Ye really believe that?” He stared into burning eyes.
One fence ...
... straddled?
Stevie snorted again, turned and stalked to the window. “If ye’re lookin’ fur proof ...” Low words. “... ah think ah ... ken where he keeps his stash.”
Jas blinked at a leathered back.
“His drugs.” Stevie turned. “There’s a big freezer at the back o’ the kitchens, wi’ a padlock. Only wan guy huz the key – only wan guy ever goes fuckin’ near it.” Striding forward, Stevie stopped an inch away. “Either Dalgleish huz a fuckin’ frozen food habit, or ...”
“Think he’d be stupid enough to keep drugs in a public area?” Jas almost laughed.
An angular face flinched as the words struck its surface.
One fence.
Two sides.
He glared, body needing the exercise, mind needing the rest. He pulled off the scratchy jumper.
“Ye don’t believe me? C’mon – ah’ll show ye!”
He felt heat from Stevie’s body ... then a hand on his bare arm.
His guts turned over.
Too close ...
Too close..
Too ...
Jas grabbed a scarred wrist, wrenching the hand away. “Get oota here! If Dalgleish turns up ah ...”
“But ...”
“Lose yersel’, Stevie!”
A ripple of anxiety flexed in his guts. He needed to be alone, needed to think, to plan ...
... and didn’t need the distraction this man’s presence provided. He sank to a crouch, then braced himself parallel to the floor.
The turn-up of jeans inches from his face.
Silence. Then obedience. Then booted feet striding past his eyes.
Jas sighed and began the push-ups.
Paul McGhee.
Early release.
Low profile.
Staring out of the small window, Jas frowned. Hands gripped the bars. He gazed over the stone wall, down into Riddrie.
Where the fuck was Paul McGhee? Maybe Neil Johnstone’s vow of non-violence, but Jas doubted this would extend to his brothers.
Paul McGhee: early release. No one had seen him since.
Neil Johnstone – via the mobile – arranging a reception committee to finish what he had started?
A shiver rippled through his right biceps. Jas frowned. His body still ached ... when he let it.
This wasn’t about last night ...
This was ... business.
Not merely the business of informing Mhairi of her brother’s whereabouts, and securing his own, at-present insecure future.
But business concerning tenders and contracts ... bigger pictures. He closed his eyes.
An image projected itself onto his eyelids: an image of Hadrian shares ... of investors ... investments ...
... of break-ins which should have been reported to the police ... of Hamster ... threats and coercion ... of snouts and small-time dealers like Paul McGhee ...
... of prisoners with keys to cells ... four faceless men beating and ...
Jas opened his eyes and frowned. This wasn’t about last night.
His mind skimmed back to decades ago, when he and Ian Dalgleish had played chess together.
Chess players were rarely team players ...
... a team of two? Experienced sergeant and green probationer. Alan Somerville ...
... he pushed the past away and concentrated on the present.
Hadrian Security Solutions. Strategies, goals, long-term financial forecasts.
Chess ...
... and an ex-sergeant in the Gorbals who knew how to use his pawns. Jas regripped the bars, hauled himself up to the small window, then straightened his arms ...
... and let a brew of disparate ingredients ferment in his mind.
He was on sit-ups when:
“Why you not in the dining hall, Anderson?”
Jas grabbed a T-shirt and wiped sweat from his chest. Eyes focused on a pink face sprouting from a grey Hadrian blouson. A surprised pink face. He stared at Brodie, who was hugging a sheaf of blue folders. “No’ hungry ...”
Snort. “Well, you’re wanted, Anderson.”
“Whit fur?”
Frown. “Don’t ask questions ...” Brodie moved back. “... just get dressed.”
Jas grabbed the scratchy jumper. As he pulled it on, eyes on his face.
“McStay an’ you not gettin’ along?”
He frowned, ran a tentative finger over his bottom lip. “Ah fell in the showers.” He watched Brodie’s features run a gamut of expressions and finally settle on a manufactured disinterest:
“Try to watch where you’re goin’, in future.”
Jas searched the words for
a hint of understanding, the giveaway shadow that Brodie either knew what was going on in the prison, and accepted – or was ignorant.
He settled on the latter. From the walkway, the sounds of feet and buckets and trolleys. Frowning. Jas moved towards the door. “How long will this take?” He turned.
He needed to talk with Ian Dalgleish.
He needed to know about the PC.
“In case you’ve forgotten ...” Expressionless face. “... an illegal weapon was found in your cell, Anderson – we’ve got to make out the report, for headquarters.”
Jas turned away and strode out onto the walkway. Pen-pushing ... the removal of privileges. From the other end of the block, the squabbling sounds of another petty argument ...
He scowled.
... and all Hadrian could do was fill in forms. Listening to the thump of boots on metal, he stared down into the empty recreation area. Voice behind:
“Get a move on, Anderson – Mr Dalgleish hasn’t got all day!”
Brodie knocked on the door of a familiar office, opened then stood aside.
Jas walked into the room. Behind, he was vaguely aware of a door unclosed. Brodie’s voice:
“Want me to get McStay now?”
Gunmetal eyes acknowledged him, then aimed themselves over his right shoulder:
“No’ at the moment.”
A grey arm brushed past his shoulder, delivered the pile of blue folders onto the desk between them:
“Right, Mr Dalgleish!”
Jas looked from the handsome face to the chess board, filling its usual place on the desk between them.
Few pawns left. The black knight was a move away from checking the white king.
Dalgleish got up from behind the desk, strode past him.
The sound of a half-open door closing. Creak, but no click.
Jas stared at the chess board. “He’s got ye.” Grey moved into his vision.
“Ah’ve got him, ye mean ...” Long fingers lifted the knight and executed the move. “... forgot ah always take black, didn’t ye?”
Jas raised his eyes.
“You huv access tae property which belongs to Hadrian Security Solutions.” Dalgleish sat down behind the desk.
Straight-to-the-point. He hadn’t expected anything less. Polis training returned like a bad dream, unwanted but familiar. Jas tried to make his face expressionless. “Aye, so ye can stop hasslin’ Hamster – he kens nothin’.”