Rab paused, his eyes still fixed on Davie. Finally he said, ‘We hit the bastards where it hurts most. In their fuckin pockets.’
Davie gave his pal a barely imperceptible nod. This was a wise course. Joe would have approved. But he wasn’t fooled. Rab’s blood was up.
Fat Boy asked, ‘How we gonnae do that, Rab?’
‘Leave that to me,’ said Rab. ‘It’s all in hand. But when we do this, they’re gonnae come back again. That’s why we have to be on our toes, understand?’
There was a further silence as they took this in. Rab’s face was tight as he kept his eyes on Davie, as if he was waiting for him to question matters, even though Davie would never do that in front of the others.
‘Okay, that’s us for now. But listen to what I’m sayin – keep your wits about you, okay?’ Rab jerked his head to the door and the other three filed out. Davie sensed he was also surplus to requirements. Whatever that was to be discussed here did not involve him. He got up wordlessly, the dog did the same. Rab’s voice stopped him as he was about to leave. ‘Davie, make sure you phone that bloke, will you?’
Davie may have been wrong, but it sounded like an order. He didn’t look back or reply as he closed the door behind him.
In the bar, where the aroma of the previous night’s spirits lurked like a ghost, Choccie waited, breaking open a bar of Dairy Milk. ‘The Kid said he’d get you outside, in the motor,’ he said. The dog padded over to him, drawn by the smell of chocolate. Choccie said, ‘Can he get a piece?’
Davie nodded. ‘Not too much.’ Chocolate was bad for dogs but he guessed a little piece wouldn’t hurt him. Choccie snapped off a square and held it out. The dog barely sniffed it before he gently eased it from his fingers, chewed once, and then swallowed.
Choccie told him he was a good boy and patted his head. He slipped a portion of chocolate into his own mouth before he said, ‘This is gonnae be bad, Davie.’ Davie nodded. Choccie was always the clever one in the crew. He knew what was ahead. ‘Can you no talk him out of it?’
‘Not my concern.’
‘You’ll be part of it, no matter what.’
Davie snapped his fingers and the dog returned to his side. Davie clicked the lead onto his collar, then straightened. ‘Then I’ll deal with it.’
Choccie looked disappointed, as if he’d expected more from him. ‘It’s gonnae be bad,’ he said again.
Davie pulled the pub door open and the bright winter sun burst through the gloom. ‘Yes, it is,’ he said then walked into the cold day.
Rab was silent for a few minutes, thinking about Davie. He was his mate, but sometimes he really pissed him off, recently more than ever. He’d been through a lot, but Rab had stood with him through most of it. It wasn’t that Rab thought Davie wouldn’t be there when pish came to shit, for Rab knew he would be. It was just that he wished Davie understood that things had changed. He was the boss now and Davie was just one of the boys, a valuable one, but when it came down to it, still just a soldier.
Stringer had carried the chair Davie had vacated to the front of the desk. He sat with one leg hooked over the other, waiting. He didn’t move a muscle. Davie had a stillness about him, but Stringer was like a statue. Rab wondered how long he’d sit there without moving or speaking. Someday he’d find out. But not today. Today there was work to be done. ‘Where is he?’ he asked.
Stringer didn’t need to ask who. ‘Liverpool, still. But he’s told the girl he’ll see her tomorrow.’
Rab nodded. ‘You ready?’
Stringer’s head bobbed once. Rab picked up a pen from the desktop and twirled it in his fingers. He didn’t even know he was doing it. His mind was on the matter in hand.
‘What about the lassie? Will they know she’s the one who fingered him?’
‘What do we care?’
Rab shrugged. He took a deep breath, for he was about to give an order that never came easily. But it was an order that had to be given. The Jarvis clan had to be taught a lesson. A message had to be sent. Davie was right, it was a declaration of war, but Bernadette was right, too – it was necessary. He also knew that Maw Jarvis and her boy Jerry were not stupid. They would expect repercussions, but perhaps not the bold step Stringer was preparing. Rab had learned a great deal from Joe and Luca. It’s a magic act, Luca once told him, sleight of hand. Keep them watching one hand while the other one’s up to all kinds of shit. Luckily, Rab had already set something else up that may put them off the scent, make them think that there was nothing further coming. He’d strengthen that with another steer to Knight. All the while, the big slapdown was up ahead.
Stringer was still waiting patiently. Rab laid the pen down.
‘Do it,’ he said.
A cold wind whipped around Knight, snatching the smoke from his cigarillo and carrying it away. He pulled his thick coat tighter to his body and stared at the gravestone. MARY DAVIES. 1960– 1993. Simple. To the point. He’d paid for it, so there was no sentiment. Jimmy Knight didn’t do sentiment.
The flowers he’d laid at the base of the stone fell over in the breeze and he stooped to right them. He straightened again. She’d been a good tout, had steered some solid gen his way. She’d been a good shag, too, or had been, until she got the virus. He’d slapped her about a couple of times, always regretted it because he liked the girl. She hadn’t always deserved it, but sometimes the mood just came upon him and when it did, there was no stopping it. She had no family, as far as he knew, or at least none that would claim her. So he’d had her buried, had the stone cut, came by every now and then with fresh flowers. He knew she’d have liked that. He didn’t tell anyone, though. Might be a show of weakness. Or sentiment. And Jimmy Knight didn’t do sentiment.
He saw Rab McClymont walking towards him up the hill, so he stepped away from the grave and moved to meet him.
‘Just once, I’d like to meet somewhere it’s warm,’ said Rab.
‘Quiet here. And in this weather we’re unlikely to be seen,’ said Knight. By necessity, they kept their partnership a secret. ‘So, what’s up?’
Rab handed him a slip of paper. ‘Punt that address to your drug squad mates. They’ll get a turn out of it.’
Knight glanced at the address. ‘Up Saracen way? This another one of Maw Jarvis’s operations? You getting her back for last night already?’
Rab shrugged. ‘No time like the present. And they need a slap. They need to do it today or tomorrow, though. They’ll be away after that.’
Knight kept looking at the slip of paper. ‘They’re geared up for that other thing you told me about.’
‘I’m sure there’s a few more bizzies they can pull in for this, eh? It’ll be worth their while.’
Knight stared at Rab, trying to read his face. He knew this guy, knew that something else was brewing under that shock of black hair. Seeing nothing, he folded the paper up and slipped it into his coat pocket. ‘Got a line on coupla names for doing your boy.’
‘Scrapper Jarvis did for Dickie.’
Knight angled his head, conceding that. ‘Maybe so, but the evidence is leading us to another two.’
Rab remained silent. Knight knew that whether the law liked it or not, Scrapper Jarvis would pay, one way or the other. Knight didn’t care. He was focussed on the two names that had come his way. Didn’t matter if they were guilty of killing that lad or not. They’d be guilty of something. All he wanted was a result.
Skooshie Thompson looked like death warmed over, but then, he’d hardly slept all night. The cops had seen to that, with their questions. He’d told them bugger all, nothing much he could tell them, really. He sure as shit wasn’t going to tell them he’d been punting gear, and that he’d dumped what he had in his pockets before they arrived. He hadn’t been in the alley when Dickie got done. He hadn’t even seen Scrapper in the club, but he knew that was who’d done it. Some things you just know. Still, he didn’t breathe a word to the cops. It just wasn’t done.
‘So, Skooshie, mate,’ said the Kid, bein
g pally. Sitting in the kitchen of Skooshie’s house while his maw was away at the shops. Drinking tea and eating digestive biscuits at the formica-topped table. The other one, that bloke McCall, just sat and watched him, never said a word, his dog lying at his feet. Skooshie had never seen him with a dog before, wondered where it came from. He’d asked McCall its name, but he just got a shake of the head. Bastard hadn’t even given his dog a name. That wasn’t right. Every dog deserves a name.
The Kid said, ‘You never saw what happened, like?’ Skooshie wasn’t taken in by the Kid’s friendly tone, though. He knew this was good ned, bad ned. He knew he was in for it.
Skooshie shook his head. ‘Dickie went for a pish, that was the last I saw of him.’ Until he found him bleeding out in the snow, that was.
The Kid nodded sagely. ‘Aye, poor Dickie was always a martyr to his bladder, so he was. So you never saw Scrapper or any of the Jarvis boys?’
Shooshie shook his head.
‘Never knew they were there, right?’
Another shake of the head.
‘But you were puntin, right?’
Skooshie sat very still, for the Kid’s voice had turned a degree or two colder. The Kid came across as this chatty, matey bloke, but Skooshie had seen him operate. He could be a hard bastard when he took the notion. Maybe not as hard as McCall, but he didn’t get into Rab’s inner circle because he was a laugh. Christ, he’d even stopped sniffing, which was a bad sign. Here it comes, he thought.
‘Skooshie – you were puntin, right?’
A nod then. He couldn’t deny it.
‘Did Rab no say to stay clear of the Corvus? Did he no say it was out of bounds?’
Another nod.
‘But you did it anyway.’ The Kid sighed. ‘Skooshie, Skooshie, Skooshie… what did you do with the stuff? Before the cops came?’
Skooshie hesitated, but he knew he had to answer. There were many things he wasn’t proud of, but what he was about to say made him ashamed. ‘Planted it all on Dickie’s body.’
The Kid’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Your dead pal?’
Skooshie’s glaze dropped to the floor. He swallowed, trying to dislodge the bitter lump that had formed in his throat. ‘Aye. I couldn’t leave him there alone and I knew if I was caught with the gear I was gonnae be huckled, so I thought…’ His voice trailed off, not wanting to say aloud what he thought.
The Kid said it for him. ‘You thought it wouldn’t hurt old Dickie any, that right? They couldn’t charge a dead man for holding.’
Skooshie felt shame redden his face. Dickie had been his mate and he’d let him down. Sure, he hadn’t forced him to go to the Corvus, but he’d promised him he wouldn’t deal. Because they were mates, Dickie had believed him. But Skooshie had let him down. And got him killed. And then he’d unloaded his goods onto his body. Some mate he was.
‘Rab’s no happy, Skooshie, mate,’ said the Kid. ‘But I’m betting you know that, eh? He knows you’re grieving, but he can’t let it pass, you understand?’
Skooshie kept looking at the floor. He knew the score. He’d stepped out of line and he had to be punished. That’s the way it is, he told himself, for if Rab lets it pass, he’d be seen as weak and then others would take liberties.
McCall moved before Skooshie even knew it. He pinned his left hand to the tabletop, seized the middle finger and jerked up and back, giving it a twist. The pain shot up Skooshie’s arm and he cried out. He tried to pull away, but McCall already had the next finger and was giving it the same treatment. Skooshie thought he heard something click, even over his scream of agony. His pinkie was next and Skooshie thought he was going to pass out. He slumped over the tabletop, his head dangling over the side, a burning red heat sizzling along his arm. His eyes met the dog’s as it watched him from the floor. The animal looked as if he was curious about his pain, then lowered his head again. A cold fucker, just like his owner.
‘Hurts like a bastard, doesn’t it?’ the Kid said. ‘Happened to me once, when I was boy. Slipped in the snow, landed wrong. Middle finger was bent back at the middle socket. Sore as fuck. But you’re lucky, Skooshie, cos Rab didn’t want you hurt too bad. Just a reminder, something visible, to let you know and let the rest know that when he says something, it’s the law. Know what I’m sayin? When he says you don’t go anywhere near a place, you don’t go anywhere near that place, understand? And you sure as fuck do not punt gear there. What is it they say? That’s just compounding the felony.’
Skooshie was whimpering as he straightened up, cradling his throbbing left hand with his right. McCall was on his feet now, the dog, too. The Kid was rising. ‘Your mate’s dead, Skooshie, and that’s sad. But it’s your fault, you know that. And the can you’ve opened has sent worms slithering all over the place. You’re out of it, far as Big Rab’s concerned. You’re done. If I was you, I’d go get myself a job digging ditches or something. Once your hand’s better, course.’
They left him in his mother’s kitchen, nursing his pain, and mourning his friend. They left him alone.
The bookies was filled with men and smoke and smoking men puffing more smoke. There were a couple of women, older women, but the overall ambience was heavy with testosterone. The floor was strewn with discarded betting slips and fag butts, but Frank Donovan did not notice them. His attention was firmly on the excited voice coming from the speakers as it gave a hoofbeat by hoofbeat account of the 1.30 from Chepstow. Donovan held his slip in one hand, staring at the name of the horse as if that would make it run faster. Speckled Band was highly fancied and he had placed 50 quid on its nose. If it came home, he’d be 500 quid better off. And he badly needed to be 500 quid better off. It was a dead cert, he had been told by Nick the Bubble, a balding little Greek who would bet on anything that moved. Nick was at the counter, chatting to the black-haired girl who took the bets. The Bubble was seventy if he was a day, but he still fancied his chances with the ladies. He got lucky often, Donovan had been told, proving you can never underestimate the susceptibility of the west of Scotland female to the lure of exotic Mediterranean charms, even though the old Greek hadn’t seen the land of his birth since he was ten. This girl, though, was having none of his patter, judging by her bored expression, forcing Donovan to wonder whether the stories of Nick’s amorous adventures were closer to legend than fact.
The announcer’s voice rose to such a level of excitement that Donovan feared he might burst something as Speckled Band went head-to-head with Kentucky Lady, battling for the finish line. Donovan unconsciously tightened his grip on the stubby brown pencil provided by the bookie as he listened. He’d forgotten he was still holding it. All that mattered was the race.
The other runners had been left behind, so it was just the two, Speckled Band leading slightly but then Kentucky Lady was closing the gap, just pushing ahead and Speckled Band was fighting back, a final stretch, getting a nose in front but Kentucky Lady wasn’t done yet, she was edging forward again, getting out in front and Speckled Band had to really push to regain the pole position but the post was just ahead and it wasn’t looking good and Kentucky Lady was drawing on reserves and widening the gap between them but Speckled Band was showing real pluck, wasn’t letting go, but they were at the post now and it was Kentucky Lady first, Speckled Band second, what a magnificent effort from these two great horses, a real credit to their trainers…
Donovan crumpled his betting slip and let it fall from his fingers to join the detritus on the floor, his dreams of the 500 quid falling with it. He didn’t really care what credit they brought to their trainers. He unfolded his other hand, saw the pencil nestling in his sweaty palm, then laid it down on the counter. He looked at Nick, who gave him an apologetic shrug of the shoulders. Win some, lose some, it said. Donovan had been losing too many these days. If only he had put it on each way, at least he would have come out with something. He sighed and walked towards the exit, pushing his way through the frosted glass onto Victoria Road. He would have to head home now, nothing else for it. Marie wo
uld be home, so he would have to argue with her before he would be able to catch a few hours’ kip. Dropping another 50 down the drain would not make things better when she found out. And their daughter, Jess, would hide in her bedroom, no doubt waiting for the sound of the front door slamming shut behind him as he stormed out to start that night’s shift.
A few flecks of snow drifted across his vision, but Donovan couldn’t tell if they were latecomers to last night’s fall or the advance guard of something far worse. The sky was dark and heavy and something was definitely up there waiting to drop. Donovan stopped on the pavement when he saw Knight grinning at him from a car parked at the kerb, one of those stinking little cigars clenched in his impossibly white teeth. Donovan groaned inwardly, because the sight of the Black Knight was just what he needed.
‘How’s it goin, Frankie boy?’
Donovan said, ‘Christ, don’t you ever sleep?’
Knight took the cigar out of his mouth. ‘The pursuit of justice never sleeps, Frankie boy. Anyway, caught a few zeds this morning, after I left you. Right as rain now. You still look like shit, though.’
Donovan was not surprised he looked like shit. It had been a long night and he should have gone straight home at shift’s end, but he kept putting it off, afraid of what the morning post might have brought. And the arguing, of course. Always the arguing. Finally, he made his pricey visit to the bookie. He frowned and said, ‘How did you know I was here?’
‘Know a lot about you, Frankie boy. It’s my business to know things about people.’
Donovan stepped closer to the car, leaned on the roof and stooped into the window. ‘You following me?’
Knight laughed and Donovan caught a faceful of cigar smoke. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, son. You know me, got eyes and ears everywhere. It’s why I’m a DI and you’re still a DS. And why I’ll be a DCI and you’ll still be a DS. Dedication, Frankie boy, dedication to the profession. Eyes, ears…’ Knight placed the cigar back between his teeth and wiggled his fingers about in the air, ‘conduits of intelligence everywhere. Tout of mine sees you in here a lot. You’ve been dropping quite a load this past wee while, I hear.’
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