40
As soon as he got Frank’s call yesterday, he came round to the house and set everything up. Two small recording devices, one in the hall and one in the kitchen. They might not be of the highest quality, but they don’t need to be. This conversation isn’t ever going to be replayed in court. Fisher wants to have these on record, for his own use only. No other cop knows about this, or will ever be told. He needs to get every word he can out of a guy like Frank. You don’t need this effort for the likes of Kenny McBride; you can demand that they repeat themselves. You don’t push Frank. As a contact, he’s A-list. He’s A-list because of all he’s seen, all he’s done.
Therein lies the difficulty. How do you combat the itch to arrest him? There are some contacts, the low-level morons, that you can create a relationship with. Not friends, but comfortable. That’ll never be the case with Frank MacLeod. Fisher will only ever see him as a killer. A man who’s simply been too talented, and too lucky, to find himself in jail. That’s if he turns up. A lot of them don’t show up at the first meeting; their bottle crashes. They come the second or third time. Or, more likely, you never hear from them again. That’ll be the case with Frank. For him it’ll be first time, or not at all.
As it happens, Frank’s sitting in his own kitchen, thinking much the same thing. If he doesn’t go to this meeting, he’ll never go. Hand himself over to the police, be at their mercy. He’ll have to give them good info. Things they can use – no bullshit. They won’t be interested in the old news of his early days. They might close a few cases from back then with his help, but they won’t consider it important. It’s the current generation that motivates them. It’s not a moral question, not any more. The idea of the grass being the scum of the earth, so what? When you’ve been pushed to the outside, left adrift, none of the old rules matter. They can’t push you out and then demand that you keep playing by their rulebook. He’ll play the game his way now. There’s a personal issue, though. If he wants to get out of Glasgow, set up somewhere safe, then he has to hand them Jamieson.
He actually met John Young first. Didn’t have a great impression of the boy. A little cold, a little too vague. He came round to visit Frank. Introduced himself, told Frank that he was Peter Jamieson’s right-hand man. Frank knew the name, of course, and he knew Jamieson was small. Not the sort of guy he had much intention of going to work for. At that point he was sure he could still get work with the best. Young urged him to meet Jamieson before he made his mind up. Frank agreed. Met him in a pub. Dingy little place, the only one Jamieson owned at the time. A pub, a couple of betting shops, some industrial property. Not much to shout about. He had plenty of ambition, though. Lots of energy, lots of personality. Lots of plans too, and that was what impressed Frank. This wasn’t your typical climber, full of big ideas that would never happen. Jamieson was ambitious, sure, but he was sensible too. His targets were realistic; the things he had set up were detailed and plausible. He was the most impressive young boss Frank had met in decades. He agreed to work for Jamieson a week or so later. Never looked back. Best decision he made in his entire career. Jamieson’s was the best-run organization he ever worked for. The fact that it wasn’t a family business helped enormously. The fact that Jamieson had the best instincts in the business helped, too. It was a joy to work for him.
Now he’s putting his coat on, getting his car keys from the phone table in the hall. Ignore all sentiment. That’s the secret to being a good gunman. Dennis Dunbar taught him that. It’s the key to being good at anything in this business. Frank learned that for himself. He thought highly of Peter Jamieson. Not as a son, maybe more a nephew. He loved the boy, if we’re being honest. But that’s all gone now. That Peter Jamieson doesn’t exist any more. There’s a new one, and he’s a threat and has to be considered accordingly. Out the door, into the car. Looking up and down the street, not seeing anything that shouldn’t be there. Heading for the address Fisher gave him. He doesn’t need satnav, doesn’t need to check a map. This is his city. Born and raised, he knows every inch of it. It’s changed a lot, and you have to keep learning, but he never shirked that side of his work. No good pro finds himself lost in his own city.
He’s parked a street away from the house. Sitting in the car, taking his time, thinking it through. He drove along the street once, saw the house. Terraced house, easy for neighbours to see you come and go. Not a great location. Still, if he’s not being followed, then it doesn’t matter. He hasn’t spotted a tail. He’s sure he would have seen one, if it was there. He’s Frank MacLeod. He’s tailed countless guys, knows all the signs. There’s a nagging feeling, the sense that he should be followed. If the roles were reversed, he would have put a tail on Jamieson. At least for a little while, just to see what his reaction was.
Make the decision. Stop stalling. He’s getting out of the car, pressing the button to lock it. Walking slowly round the corner. He’s feeling his hip a little more today. The doc warned that he would feel discomfort for a little while. Warned him there would be days like this.
There’s a knock on the front door. Fisher’s moving quickly along the narrow corridor. He’s looking through the peephole. It’s Frank, and he’s on his own. It has occurred to Fisher, more than once, that this could be a trap. Maybe if his work hadn’t been going down the toilet of late, he would have believed it. If Shug’s targeting Jamieson, then there’s a link from Jamieson to the Winter, Scott and McClure deaths. A link that might threaten a man like Jamieson, if the investigations had been successful. Jamieson isn’t daft. He won’t target a cop unless that cop is on the brink of taking him down. It’s always a last resort. This would be a good set-up, though. Send the driver round as a contact. That’s all off the record. The driver feeds a line about the gunman. Fisher calls up the gunman, sets up a private meeting at a secret location. Just the two of them. Nobody else even knowing they’re meeting. Good God, that would be a perfect set-up.
Frank’s stepping in the door, all by himself. He looks small, old and ordinary. He looks like any old man who would pass you in the street. That’s the point. Don’t forget. He’s nodding to Fisher, but not saying anything. The door’s shut behind them. They’re standing in the corridor, at the bottom of the stairs. It’s gloomy and unpleasant. It sets a tone.
‘Come through,’ Fisher’s saying. He’s leading the way through to the kitchen. It’s become a familiar meeting place for him. Prudence says it’s time to find somewhere else. You keep meeting people in the same place, and someone’s bound to work it out. Frank’s followed him through. Fisher’s gesturing for Frank to take a seat at the table. To his relief, Frank does. If this was a fix and he was going to kill him, it would have happened by now.
‘Can I get you a cup of tea, Frank?’ he’s asking. Being friendly with this old murdering bastard.
‘No thanks.’
He can see that Fisher’s making an effort. He can see the strain it’s putting on the cop, too. Fisher hates him. Of course he does. He’s the enemy. They’re not here to make friends. They’re here to make a deal. The chance of a new life. The only chance of a new life. Even a job with another organization just means more of the same. The only racket that can protect him now is the police.
‘I’m glad you came,’ Fisher’s saying. Sitting opposite him, looking serious. ‘I know this isn’t going to be easy. Not for either of us. We’re from different sides of the fence, you and me. But I reckon we’re both realists. Have to be. We have a chance to help each other. It’s a chance that might not come along again.’ He’s pausing, waiting for Frank to speak.
‘Maybe I will have that cup of tea.’
Fisher’s putting milk in the cups. He knows what this is all about. Frank just wanted to shut him up. Typical of a criminal. Even the supposedly great ones – the ones at the top of the tree. They’re all the same. The same little tricks, the same deflections, the same reluctance. They can’t help themselves. It turns into an instinct for them, and it makes meetings like this an almighty chore. They know what needs to be said, but they prevent themselves from saying it until the very last minute.
‘You take milk, sugar?’
Frank’s shaking his head. Probably won’t even drink the bloody tea. This is all about buying him time. More time to think about what he’s done. More time he shouldn’t need. Fisher’s putting the cup down in front of him, sitting at the table again. No more delay.
‘I’m led to believe that you’re no longer working for Peter Jamieson.’
Frank’s glancing at him. ‘Not strictly true.’ He’s talking low, a little above a whisper. Forcing Fisher to listen close. ‘My role has changed. Not necessarily for the better.’
Fisher’s nodding. ‘If you’re being pushed out, then you only have one chance of a clean break,’ he’s saying. Frank’s given him a knowing stare, then looked back to that spot on the table that he’s been so taken with since he arrived. The stare was his way of saying that he has more than one option. He may only have one legal option, but they both know that’s not a major consideration. ‘I can give you a clean break. I can give you protection you won’t get anywhere else. I know you could go work for someone else, but that can’t be your best option. You already have a lot of enemies. Going to work for someone else makes that worse. It means I’ll be keeping a close eye on you; see what you do for your new boss. A lot of people will be keeping a close eye on you. I can put you somewhere nobody will see you. Out of the city. Across the border, if that’s what you want. You can have a normal life.’
He saved that line until last on purpose. Frank knows it, too. Fisher’s seen members of the old guard like Frank before. Not many. Never personally handled one as a contact, not someone this high up the food chain. But they all have one thing in common. The desire to live like normal people. Just a few years of normality, when you’re not looking over your shoulder. Most of them have gone decades without experiencing that. Some are stupid enough to try to live it without protection. Selfish enough to try to create normal relationships that put other people in danger. Frank doesn’t seem like that guy. Too smart.
‘You think you can guarantee my safety?’ he’s asking.
Fisher knows how to answer this one. ‘We both know I can’t guarantee it one hundred per cent. No one can. But I can give you a better chance than anybody you might work for can. You go work for someone else, you have to be seen working for them. That would be the whole point of hiring you. You have to stay here and be visible. Look over your shoulder everywhere you go.’
He knows how to sell treachery, this boy. Frank’s looking at him. Not a boy. A rather rough-looking middle-aged man. A lined face, in need of a shave. Looks like he’s had a lot of late nights. Bags under his eyes. Not a surprise that he’s stressed.
‘And from me you would want?’
‘I would want as much as I can get. I’m not going to ask you to incriminate yourself. I’m not daft, I know there’s a lot of things you’ll want to hold back, for a lot of reasons.’ Be reasonable with the man. Don’t be demanding. Let him think it might not be as bad as he expects. Hard to fool a man like Frank, but worth a try. ‘You know that I’ll need something reasonably big. Something recent and big. Giving you a new life means a big investment. Hard to get that these days. I’d need something good to back it up with. I know you have some good stuff you could afford to throw my way.’
Frank’s nodding, but he’s not saying anything. Why do all these old men have such inscrutable faces? Fisher’s waiting for the response. It’s make-your-mind-up time.
Something big. Something recent. Something that doesn’t incriminate him. Hard to think of any job Jamieson’s done that Frank wasn’t connected to in some way. Lewis Winter, perhaps. He even had minor involvement in that. It was Frank that Calum went to after the phone call from Glen Davidson. Still, all he did was pass on information. They couldn’t come down on him for that. It might be suitable. Suitable. Yeah. And then what? They go arrest Calum MacLean. A young guy who’s a carbon copy of the person Frank was thirty years ago. A talent. A quiet boy who knows how to do the job. How to live the life. They go arrest George Daly. A good wee boy, that one. Good muscle. The only muscle that’s ever been likeable, in Frank’s experience. Most muscle are unforgivably stupid and annoying. Not George. Then they go arrest John Young. Okay. He could live with that. Young’s sole redeeming feature is that he’s always been a good friend to Jamieson. Honest, smart and loyal. Then they go and arrest Peter Jamieson. Not that he doesn’t deserve it. They all deserve it. But Jamieson. Shit! He did so much for Frank. Bent over backwards. Anything Frank needed. From day one. Always no questions asked. He wasn’t just a boss. He was a friend. That’s too rare to sacrifice.
Frank’s standing up. Not suddenly. Not overcome with emotion. He’s an old man who’s accepted the situation.
‘I have to apologize to you,’ he’s saying to Fisher. ‘I don’t doubt that you would have done your best for me. You’re a good cop; it’s why they’re scared of you. You’re persistent. They don’t like that. I thank you for the offer, but I can’t do this. I thought, maybe, I could. It’s not me. I’ve been too long at this. Sorry.’
Fisher’s standing up. Shit! So close. That fucking close. ‘Look, you don’t have to walk away from this. The offer’s there. It’ll stay on the table. Let me give you my mobile number. You can call me any time. Never too late.’ He knows he sounds desperate. He doesn’t care. A golden contact is about to walk out the door, and he’s not the sort to come back.
‘I don’t think that will be necessary. If I need you, I can find you. But I don’t think that’s going to happen.’ He’s smiling sadly. ‘There’s nothing else you could have done.’
Frank’s gone. Walked out, and he won’t be back. It feels like Fisher’s last chance has just walked out that door. The Scott investigation will die. The best they can argue is that Shug was supplying to Scott. Which he wasn’t. Not directly anyway. So that’ll go nowhere. Another investigation gone. They’ll close it. Call it murder-suicide and everyone moves on. Another failure for Michael Fisher. Another chance for those bastards to laugh at him. People like Jamieson and Shug, laughing behind his back. Fucking up this city from top to bottom and getting away with it. Getting away with it because he can’t close a case any more.