by BRM Stewart
‘I’m guessing the police would.’
I frowned. ‘You think they’re on his case?’
‘I’m positive. There have been big moves against Glasgow organised crime recently – Operation Lockdown – and seizing assets is a priority, so they’ve got to find the assets first. They build up the picture, make the case, and then round up the bad guys.’
What he said sounded reasonable, but I couldn’t see how it helped, and said so. At the back of my mind I realised I was one of the ‘bad guys’. Were they planning to come after me? I shifted in my seat, suddenly feeling insecure; I looked round, and tensed as the pub door opened.
He nodded. ‘It could be very dangerous to start talking to any policeman involved in investigating organised crime in Glasgow.’ He sipped at his gin. ‘But it would be good to know what they knew. It would help.’ He left another pause, and another sip of gin. ‘There might be a way I could get some information.’
‘How?’
‘Private detectives usually have links with the police, and some have links that border on the illegal. I’m not accusing anyone of being a criminal here, but sometimes information is traded for favours. Or cash. I know a few. Want me to try?’
I nodded. ‘Yes, fine. Try anything you can to get the information.’
He gave a small cough. ‘I’ll get a contact for you, but then you do the talking, Martin. I need to keep at arm’s length.’
‘OK.’ I appreciated immediately what he meant: he was dabbling close to someone – me – who might be considered to be a criminal. He wanted to help me, but he had to protect himself. But I was feeling a chill wind, like people were creeping up on me, that time was running out.
‘What do I do with the cash, Andrew? Ultimately. The papers are full of scare stories.’
He agreed. ‘The big multi-national banks are safe now – no one can afford to let them go down the toilet – but foreign-based ones, especially in the Euro-zone, may take a hit at any time over the next few years. If you want your money safe, then keep it in concealed accounts in this country – spread it out; the money laundering regs are tight, so always be able to account for cash and transactions, and don’t ship it back and forward. If you want to be safe then put your money in concealed accounts in offshore banks – Gibraltar would be a good option: it’s technically British, but their financial institutions work differently. There are also some foreign online banks which are specialising in money laundering.’
‘Could I lose it all?’
‘Certainly – even if the police or HMRC don’t get interested in you and track down your assets and seize them, the Euro could devalue more, or it might break up. In Spain, the property companies have taken the bullet. In Greece, nobody’s taking the bullet, so the whole place is in meltdown, and they may drag the Euro down with them. If that happens, then nobody is going to predict anything. All you can do is spread your risks and cover your tracks, but the police have very good forensic accountants.’
We finished our drinks, and shook hands as he left. I stayed for another beer and something to eat. I looked out at the rain and the bodies huddling forward against the wind. I was committed now, that’s all there was to it.
Chapter 9
Into the nineties - Glasgow
Davey and I got back to the flat late that Friday, after a couple of beers in the pub with our new co-worker Frank.
We’d expanded, and I’d discovered the joys of being an employer – hiring and firing people. We had needed a new engineer, and advertised in the trade papers, and also in the university union. We devised a simple test: hand somebody a broken computer and get them to diagnose the problem and either fix it, if it was simple, or describe what they would do: easy test first, harder one later.
Some of our applicants were rubbish: one guy just suggested reinstalling windows 3.1, when the fault was a broken monitor. Another didn’t notice the monitor wasn’t plugged in, and started hitting it.
We hired a guy who lasted three weeks. When a young customer came back saying that his new graphics card wasn’t any faster than his old one and could I take a look, I found that it hadn’t been replaced at all, and there was no paperwork – our guy had done nothing but pocketed the money from this trusting soul. I sacked him and fitted a new card for free.
But Frank was all right. He had trouble making eye contact, and didn’t do much small talk, but he was OK. Davey at least looked at your shoes when he spoke to you.
All around us, Glasgow was changing. The shipyards had long been swept away now, and the riverfront continued to develop as a middle-class paradise with flats overlooking the river, all catalysed by the Garden Festival a few years back. Our area was now home to more little cafes and restaurants. Further over, Byres Road was moving further up-market.
The only problem we had was with Charlie.
Sam was now at college two days a week, so we had a temp, Stevie – also a girl. She was about Sam’s age, but more personable – bright and chatty. She dressed smartly too, with leggings and tight tops. If Fiona hadn’t been there, I would definitely have taken a fancy to Stevie, with her long strawberry blonde hair. Davey took a shine to her, but hadn’t yet had the courage to ask her out.
‘She must have a boyfriend,’ he said. ‘Look at her. She’s gorgeous.’
‘Give it a go,’ I said. ‘What have you got to lose?’
But he didn’t.
One afternoon I’d been out to get some parts from another shop, stuff we needed urgently. Davey was home in bed with a hacking cough and a temperature. I got back to the shop and found the door was locked and the venetian blinds turned. I thought it was odd, but just used my key and went in.
Stevie was in the corner, arms across her chest, tears streaming down her face, which was half-turned away. ‘Don’t,’ she was pleading. ‘Please don’t.’ Her blouse was loose, half-unfastened.
Charlie was in the middle of the shop, swaying. He was wearing his suit, and I could smell the alcohol in the air.
‘Charlie!’
He turned, almost falling over. ‘Hey, Martin, wee man. Pal.’
His trouser zip was undone, and a tumescent penis waved at me. ‘Just getting to know wee Stevie here. Fuckin’ lovely, isn’t she.’ His words slurred into each other. He turned back to face her, and again she hid her face from him, crouching.
‘Aw come on, hen. Just a wee suck o’ ma cock. Come on. You be nice to me and I’ll be nice to you. Come on.’
She almost screamed: ‘No. Get away from me.’
‘Charlie!’
He turned back to me, frowning.
OK, options, I thought. I could beat him senseless with the chair that was near me, and no doubt he would return the favour when he recovered, and might just kill me. Or I could kill him first – no, maybe not.
Option 3: ‘Charlie! She’s Davey’s girlfriend. You have to leave her alone.’ In the background I could see Stevie take that in – maybe she thought this was a worse option. Charlie slowly absorbed the information. ‘If you hurt her, he won’t be happy, Charlie. He would leave. We couldn’t replace Davey. The company would be ruined. Your dad wouldn’t be happy.’
I had to go through that several more times, till finally he didn’t turn away from me. He zipped up his fly, tucked his shirt into his trousers. ‘’S OK wee man. ‘S OK.’
He stumbled towards me and shook my hand warmly. ‘’S OK.’
And I helped him out of the door. I could have phoned a taxi, phoned Sandy to come and get him, or… but I shut the door behind him once I’d made sure he was still staggering away from the shop. I went over to Stevie. ‘You OK?’
She was still crouched down, still sobbing, not looking up. I sat on the chair, wondering what to do.
Charlie reappeared two days later like nothing had happened. He didn’t refer to that afternoon, and didn’t comment on our new temp – a fifty-five year old spinster, who was personable enough and efficient, but who was never going to arouse Charlie’s libido, or anyone
else’s, for that matter. I never saw Stevie again: we sent her a month’s wages in lieu. I didn’t tell Davey what had happened, in case he took it upon himself to avenge her honour.
*
One Friday evening when we got back to the flat very late, Fiona said she wanted to discuss something with me. Davey obligingly went off to his room: he had a Sega Megadrive and a wee TV in there, which kept him amused.
I sat by her in the lounge, and yawned. ‘God, I’m knackered.’
She nodded sympathetically. ‘I’m pregnant.’
I couldn’t think of a reply. I looked at her to sense her mood – was she happy, devastated?
‘How?’ She frowned at me, a sardonic smile. ‘I thought you were on the pill.’
‘I was always a wee bit careless with taking them - sorry. And you’re a very prolific lover.’ She smiled broadly, reaching to stroke my hair.
‘So how…?’
‘Three months. What do we do?’
OK, options, I thought.
Her eyes seemed to know what one of the options was, so she chose to clarify one thing: ‘Remember I’m an Italian Catholic. I’m lapsed, but not that much.’
I nodded again, and she waited. Options. I saw my life with her, and the kids – because there would be more – a bigger flat. Me in the business, her at the museum, maybe finishing her art diploma. She was gorgeous, we got on so well – what more could I hope for?
But we were both just into our twenties – did we really want to nail down our lives in this way?
I looked at her, and she looked back at me as she stroked my hair, and I saw her smile start to dim and the panic rise in her brown eyes as they scanned my face – and I reached for her and held her tight, and she started to cry.
‘I’m so sorry, Martin. I know this isn’t what you wanted. We’re too young.’ I could feel her tears on my neck. I held her tighter.
‘I love you, Fiona,’ I said. ‘I want to be with you forever, and I promise you I will be.’
*
A month later, Fiona and I had a quiet Catholic wedding, if there is such a thing. Her family made up most of the crowd – aunties and uncles and cousins, and her younger sister Janine, who was just sixteen but had an astonishing Italian dark beauty and sultry sexuality about her. At one point Fiona nudged me: ‘Keep your mouth closed, Martin.’ She smiled, and then, seriously: ‘She’s big-headed enough. I don’t want her thinking that my husband fancies her as well.’
Fiona’s dad turned up. He was greeted politely enough, but embraces were tentative and the atmosphere cool around him. I talked to him, and found him good company – he was a businessman, and ran a couple of restaurants in Sorrento. I told him I’d never been there. ‘You must come and visit. You can sip wine on the terrace of my restaurant and look across the bay to Mount Vesuvius. Stay in my apartment.’
He was a wee guy, immaculately dressed in what looked to me like an expensive suit; he was tanned, dark hair peppered with grey – I could see Fiona’s and Janine’s beauty in his good looks. Not that Fiona’s mum wasn’t lovely, but she was paler Glasgow stock.
My mum and Alan were there, and my Uncle Bert, who worked as a janitor in a primary school, and Auntie Chrissie. Davey was there too, with a girl, Jane. She worked in the pub we always went to: she was a wee round redhead, like a shorter version of Stevie whom Davey had fancied but never tracked down again. And Frank, who had somehow remembered to put on a jacket and tie.
At the reception we had lots of drink and food, and then a dance with a Scottish band and everyone we knew invited. Late in the evening, Fiona and I got a taxi to the Holiday Inn at Glasgow Airport. In bed we talked about the rest of our lives: the baby, my business, finding a child-minder in a couple of years so she could finish her art degree. Davey had already found another place – bought by Ken Talbot through the company, but in effect it was Davey’s. Fiona and I would need a bigger flat when the baby was older, and we wanted to move up Byres Road: I reckoned I could afford a mortgage, get out from Talbot’s patronage.
We were so young and as successful as someone our age could hope to be, though god knew I was working hard.
The next day we flew to Faro, took the coach transfer to Alvor and a hotel on a hill overlooking the town, the beach just out of sight. It was expensive, but we agreed it was going to be our last holiday on our own for a while. Fiona had been to Italy a lot, of course, but after her father had left her mother, they hadn’t been particularly well-off. The gorgeous, enigmatic Janine had apparently been the favourite child, and her private education at an all-girls’ school in Glasgow was being paid for by him. (Fiona had implied that this was an attempt to stop her getting shagged by all and sundry, thus distracting her from her studies.)
We had a fantastic week living the good life in Alvor, and I vowed to return whenever I could. It was my first taste of expensive meals and good wine – and all that when I was so young. I thought with some smugness about my school pals who had gone to university and who would not be able to afford a life like this.
Life was so good, I could taste it. The future was fantastic, there was nothing we couldn’t achieve. All this from a guy who’d failed all his Highers – I lay on the beach and remembered report card comments from my teachers about how I needed to apply myself more (true) and how I would never, ever amount to anything (up yours!).
Towards the end of the week, Fiona was a bit sick from the heat and the baby. So were glad to get back to Glasgow.
I went back to work, and Fiona took to her bed to get over whatever it was. She was hardly eating.
Then I got a phone call from her to say she had stomach cramps: something was wrong with the baby. I called a taxi, and rushed her down to the Western. They took her into maternity. I waited and waited, and then someone came to take me to a little room: she’d lost the baby.
She was inconsolable, and immediately offered me a divorce. I laughed that away, and said we’d try again, and wouldn’t that be fun.
And we did try again. After two further miscarriages in less than two years, we decided to stop trying for a bit. It had left her looking very thin, and she seemed almost permanently tired. But we still enjoyed a good life. I was confident she’d recover. I wasn’t that bothered about having kids anyway.
Getting in, and getting out
Chapter 10
Kirkwall
It’s been a week and a half since my arrival and there has been no knock at my door, no one looking for me. The weather has improved and I’ve hired a car – cash, but on my own driving licence of course – and been exploring. I’ve immersed myself in the history of the place, from the ancient history of Skara Brae – which puts my short little life into perspective – to the wars, Scapa Flow, and the drive along the Churchill barriers.
I’m beginning to feel safe, but I know that’s an illusion. Maybe I am, but maybe time is running out as someone tracks me down, and I should prepare to move on, perhaps further to the north isles. Every day, as the Flybe flights come over, I wonder whether someone I really don’t want to see is about to come for me.
I get to know a few regulars in the pub, and a few people who appear in the hotel for a few nights – though they leave, and my heart sinks because I can’t. It’s good to talk to people, but I have to be careful about what I say. I gradually evolve a cover story that isn’t so far from the truth: I’m retired – yes, very young, thank you! – after working in computers for years, my own company, sold out – you wouldn’t have heard of us. I alternate my story: sometimes my company was based in Glasgow, sometimes in Edinburgh, sometimes vaguely ‘online’.
There’s a woman that catches my eye, partly because she’s on her own: she’s about my age, and what I notice most about her is her mass of rich brown hair which reaches to her shoulders and falls over her face as she eats her dinner and reads her Kindle. She wears a severe dark suit in the mornings at breakfast – she’s usually leaving as I come down – but jeans and a mannish shirt in the evenings. She doesn�
�t drink alcohol: she eats her meals, gives a wide smile to the waitress, and vanishes back to her room. She wears a wedding ring.
On the Thursday evening I find I’m sitting in the hotel lounge bar at a table near her, and can make eye contact – which we do, and she smiles: she’s recognised me, but her Kindle is more interesting than me. I look at her face: no make-up in the evenings, bright eyes that quickly take in the room when someone comes in and then return to her reading, occasionally giving me a half-smile on the way past.
The hotel is quiet this week. I’m the only fugitive, from what I can see. There are a few people in suits, like my lady, and a few others who wear overalls. Some local families come in for dinner too – one evening there is a table of twelve for a birthday party, a grandfather and his extended family.
She finishes her meal – the haddock and chips – and looks like she’s going to finish her chapter, and then her coke, and then go back to her room as always.
‘Food’s good here,’ I venture.
She looks up, and gives me a wide smile. ‘Yes.’ Then back to her book.
‘The hotel’s pretty good.’
Head up, smile, ‘Yes,’ head back.
‘You here with work?’
Head up, smile, ‘Yes,’ head back. And then a moment later she closes the cover of the Kindle, and finishes her coke. She stands up, and gives me another wide smile: ‘Enjoy the rest of your evening.’
I get back to my lasagne.
The next morning – Friday – she’s at reception, with her suitcase and a laptop bag and an enormous handbag, checking out.
‘Safe journey,’ I offer.
She gives me another of her big smiles. ‘Good to be getting home,’ she says. And then a fractional pause. ‘But back next week.’
‘I’ll still be here,’ I say, and our eyes hold contact for a little longer than necessary, before I turn away and wander down to the lounge bar where breakfast is served. This place maybe isn’t so bad.
*