I watched him but said nothing. He knew what I was thinking, and why I was there. Two more workers came out of the factory. They spoke in Czech to each other, laughed and passed out the tabs.
‘I have to be getting back.’ Andy’s breath came white against the cold air.
‘Okay,’ I said.
He leaned over, lowered his voice: ‘Look, I’ve nothing to tell you.’
‘I hear you.’
‘I’m serious . . . I have a family to think of too.’
I dropped my gaze, said, ‘We’ve all got families, Andy. My brother had a family; Ian Kerr had one too.’
The two Czechs pulled up beside us, nodded to their gaffer.
Andy raised his voice: ‘So, thanks for dropping by. I’m sorry we’ve no work for you.’ He took me by the arm to the edge of the car park. I watched his gaze shift edgily, left to right, as he walked. ‘The backshift comes in a couple of hours. Give me five minutes to sort them out and then I’ll see you over there.’ He pointed to a boozer – it was old school, proper Edinburgh.
I thanked him: ‘I won’t forget this.’
I moved the car off the double yellows; even in an industrial area, you couldn’t be guaranteed the ticketers wouldn’t be out – it had become a real cash cow for the city. I got parked on a side street. Children were throwing snowballs all about, young kids, only about seven or eight. They sang a bawdy old rhyme:
Olé, olé, olé,
Tits in the trolley,
Balls in the biscuit tin.
The words came back to me from my schooldays. I used to think it was just a street saying that got passed around by the kids. Now I disinterred a deeper meaning, a significance: life was just a constant struggle, projected in our physical and mental deterioration. But even so, it was the only game in town. Graft, or go under.
I crossed the street to the drinker. A portable telly sat on the bar, no flat-screen here. The barman was watching
Countdown
; he could hardly drag himself away as a Geordie bloke asked for a vowel and then a consonant.
‘Can I have an orange juice, please?’ I said.
Cautious looks from a toothless jakey in a baseball cap to my left. I knew the territory: there was a time when I wouldn’t have trusted someone coming into a pub and ordering – that worst of things – a
soft
drink. My father would be roaring laughing in his grave.
I took my glass to a table in the corner, where I could keep an eye on the front door. I still heard
Countdown
blaring from the portable, the clock ticking to the end of the round.
I found a newspaper sitting on the next table, flicked through it, eyes half shut. Full of celebrity pish, no content. One story struck me though: today tattoos had officially become uncool – Nigel Havers had got one.
I sipped at my orange and watched the clock begin again on
Countdown
. I wondered about buying another drink when in walked Andy. He wore an old Lord Anthony ski jacket; the shiny collar was turned up, his thin shoulders poked through. He had a look about him that fitted many a Scotsman of his class and generation, the word is
puggled.
A lifetime spent keeping body and soul together had taken its toll. Left him worn out.
I greeted him with a nod. ‘What can I get you?’
‘A wee nippy sweetie.’
I took myself to the bar, ordered a dram. I switched off my mobi – didn’t want to disturb Andy if he started to rabbit. He scratched the stubble on his chin as I returned. ‘We no’ a bit close to home for you in here?’ I said.
He tutted. ‘Nae danger . . . None of that shower come in here.’
It was my experience that a workforce piled into the nearest pub after every other shift. ‘How come?’
Andy rubbed his chin again. ‘No’ allowed.’
This threw me. ‘
Y’wha’
?’
He took up the wee goldie, sipped. It made his eyes widen. He had very large eyes, dark, with an excess of white surrounding them, said, ‘The set-up in there is the workers get bussed in and bussed back. Bus doesn’t stop at the pub.’
I saw Andy might be ready to unburden himself, but I thought I still had some persuading to do.
He drained his glass.
‘Another?’
He pressed his lips together. The tip of his tongue darted out. ‘Aye . . . please, son.’
At the bar the jakey watched me order another whisky with something close to envy glowing from him. He tried to engage me in chat about Carol Vorderman having refused a cut in her million-a-year salary: ‘A fine bit ay stuff, mind . . . for an older woman, like.’
I blanked him. Returned to my table.
Andy kept his jacket on. I noticed there was a little snow on the shoulders; as I glanced out the window I saw another deluge had started.
‘Here you go.’
He took the glass, fired a good mouthful. ‘
Slainte mhath.
’
I watched the burn of the whisky settle his mind. I envied him, but knew I needed to stay the course.
‘Andy, do you know why I came to see you today?’
He nodded. ‘I have a fair idea.’
‘You strike me as a decent sort.’
He laughed. ‘I don’t know about that.’
‘Well,
I
know.’
He looked at me, quickly turned back to his glass.
I said, ‘Andy . . . my brother was murdered. I don’t know what you heard about that, but I know that something fucking shady’s going on over the road . . . I think Ian Kerr knew that too. I need you to help me join the dots.’
The words didn’t seem to have the impact I’d expected them to. Andy looked unfazed, but then he hadn’t seen the kip of Kerr.
He sighed. ‘I’m very sorry for your pain. Really, I am.’
I didn’t want his sympathy. ‘It’s your help I want.’
He tipped back the last of the scoosh. ‘And what about the way Big Ian went?’
‘You want them to get away with that?’
He huffed.
‘Someone wanted Kerr to stay quiet . . . Someone’s got a lot to lose,’ I said.
‘Oh, I’d fucking say so.’
I held back for a moment, let the thought of Ian Kerr’s death settle between us. ‘I need information about the set-up over there.’
‘What information?’
I smelt the whisky on Andy’s breath; it made my pulse race. ‘I know about the Czechs, the labour racket . . . Fucking hell, let’s call it what it is:
slavery
. And I know about Ronnie McMilne.’
The mention of the Undertaker put the shits up him, I could see that. The idea of being buried alive was universal. Something leaped in him. ‘I was on the trucks when McMilne came in . . .’
‘Go on.’
‘It was low-scale at first, bits and pieces added to the loads.’
I checked him: ‘The loads . . . Rewind a bit there, mate.’
Andy sketched out the way the business worked, shipping components from all over Europe to assemble in the city factory. There had been cash-flow problems, trouble paying wages, creditors giving agg. The banks had been no help.
‘That’s when Davie took up with this McMilne geezer,’ said Andy. ‘The idea was the truckies would load a few extra pallets on the wagons and customs would be none the wiser if the paperwork was sound.’
‘And no one said shit about it?’
‘One or two drivers got lippy and were sorted out, but the rest got a right good drink out it. You’ve got to remember they were bumping folk left and right at this time . . . The boys had to put steam on the table.’
‘So where did it all go wrong?’
‘This fella . . . McMilne, he was pushing for more and more, wanted whole loads carried, all this Polish vodka and ciggies, container-loads. The boys got worried. That’s when it got kicked upstairs . . . to Michael.’
‘He didn’t know?’
Andy returned to his stubble, ran his palm over his chin. ‘No, your brother knew, I’m sorry to tell you. He had no choice – the firm was going under.’
It came as a jolt to hear Michael had been involved with the Undertaker, but who was I to judge? Hadn’t I done a million times worse myself? My brother was only trying to protect his livelihood, looking after his family, and quite a few others.
‘Then what happened?’ I said.
‘We took the full loads.’
I shook my head. I could see the Undertaker had his hooks into Davie and Michael. Running some knock-off was one thing, though. I just didn’t buy my brother going for the labour racket, that would be a step too far for him. ‘Tell me, Andy, where do the Czechs come in?’
His face blackened. ‘Bunch of cunts.’ He spat on the floor. ‘That’s where it all went fucking crazy . . . I wanted out, but they told me no way.’
‘Who told you?’
‘Davie – the Czechs were his idea . . . McMilne brought them in by the lorryload but that was all we had to do with them at first. It was fat fucking Davie who saw the benefits of putting them to work over the road.’
I knew it. Davie had been led by the wallet. ‘Punt the loyal workers and replace them with a cheaper lot . . . and turn a blind eye to why they were so cheap.’
‘Said the wages bill needed cut doon. The Czechs told him they were the answer to all his worries, and he believed them.’
‘Fucksake, did he buy any magic beans off them as well?’
Andy snorted. ‘It all backfired on fat Davie, though . . . when he punted all his workers, the Czechs took over. And they wanted fuck all to do with McMilne.’
I couldn’t see the Undertaker being too pleased about carving up his venture. ‘So they edged him out?’
‘Too fucking right they did. Took over the runs themselves.’
It sounded like an act of war to me, said, ‘I bet that didn’t go down too well.’
Andy nodded, let out a nervous grunt. His eyes grew even wider as he looked to the window and across the factory yard. ‘I’m surprised we’re no’ all in the fucking ground.’
I shook my head. ‘There’s time yet.’
Chapter 17
I SAT AT THE LIGHTS on London Road. Didn’t realise they’d changed to green, and then back to red, until some bell-end in a white van started blasting me with his horn. I turned round to eyeball him through the back window, and he pretended to talk into his Bluetooth earpiece.
An excuse, even a slight one, and I was going postal.
My mind was awash with what Michael had been through in his last months. He’d built up an international business, had made the kind of life for himself that most of us could only dream of, and it had all been snatched away from him. The masters of the universe he called neighbours had crashed the banks and took his business down with them. The bankers were all right, though: the government had insured their fuck-ups, even managed the kind of bailout that would see some of them paid bonuses like nothing had happened. The world had gone mad. How could I blame my brother for losing it too?
Nightly, the politicians – our supposed leaders – strutted out, chests puffed, PR-advised smiles plastered on their coupons and assured us they had everything under control. Like fuck they did. They were in a spin, pumping the gas then the brake in ever-increasing desperation to stop this rig from hitting the wall.
‘Fucking bastards,’ I mouthed.
I’d never felt more helpless; I knew how the workers, the truckies and the line operators that fat Davie punted must have felt. The suits had brought us to this crash, but it was the working man who was going to feel the full impact.
I parked up on Easter Road and braced myself for the Arctic blast I saw blowing the litter up the street at a hundred miles per hour. I wondered if the scaffies were on strike again; if they were then, for the first time, I didn’t blame them. We needed more protests. We needed to get the fucking tumbrils rolling.
Outside the flat there was a cold-looking cat stood on a window ledge. It screeched to get inside but there was no one home. The animal looked frozen, like the one Victor Meldrew found in his freezer. I picked it up and brought it into the stairwell. It raised tail and prowled before the door of the ground-floor flat it called home.
As I took the steps I sensed movement, looked down to see a yellow trickle rolling over the stair. I knew at once what it was from the smell. As I turned the corner I caught the schemie who’d been round asking for three quid to clean the stairs. He stood with his tackle out, a grand arc of pish flowing from him.
He clocked me, made a mad fumble to zip up.
I took the stairs slowly. The blood-pumping so loudly in me that I could hear it. ‘You fucking skanky piece of shit,’ I said.
He looked up at me. His beanie was pushed back on his head; a couple of grey teeth protruded above a scabby lip. I waited for a reply, got none. He obviously took being rumbled as a professional risk – sauntered past me onto the steps with a shrug.
I wasn’t having it. Launched a rabbit punch to the back of his napper. He flew into the wall, collapsed in his own urine. As he turned I saw his teeth had made contact with the plaster, dislodged a chalky hole that fell like dust over him. He tried to get up but slipped in his own pish.
I moved above him. ‘You little fucker . . . Think this is the way, do you?’ I slapped him across the puss, forehand then backhand. ‘Nice little fucking earner, was it?’
I yanked open his jacket, ripped into his inside pocket. Found his cash and yanked it out.
He spluttered blood from his mouth as he tried to speak, made a weak attempt to snatch back the notes.
I showed him the back of my hand again, he recoiled.
‘I need that,’ he said.
I couldn’t believe I was hearing this. I counted the notes. ‘And what, you think the folk in here don’t?’ It was only twenty-six pounds: enough to fill the tank at the pub and come back for more.
‘But . . . but . . .’
He watched me pocket the cash. His mouth still drooped open, dripping blood. I slapped the side of his head, the beanie went for a flier. ‘Now, listen up, you daft little cunt. I catch you in this stair again, the only pissing you’ll be doing is into a fucking bag, you get me?’