The Sudden Arrival of Violence: A Glasgow Underworld Novel 3 (16 page)

A plain door at the top of the stairs. No markings. An office, Fairly said. An office that doesn’t advertise, obviously. Standing outside staring at a blank door isn’t going to get him anywhere. William’s pushing the door open. An office inside. Three desks. A bunch of filing cabinets. Computers on the desk, but there’s something odd about the place. Takes William a few seconds to realize. There’s nothing lying around that could identify what work they do here. There are times, in the garage, when he’s been careful to keep some documents out of view. Cars he shouldn’t be handling, that sort of thing. This is obviously a whole company of things worth hiding. Probably loan-sharking, something like that. Which isn’t reassuring. Not even Barry Fairly sitting alone at one of the desks is reassuring. He’s the only one here, but there’s a door behind him and another to his right. Anyone could be in there. Anyone could come up the stairs behind William and block him in. This is not a time to relax.

‘Don’t worry,’ Barry’s saying, ‘this place is safe. I do some work for the guy who owns it. He lets me use it now and then. It’s fine.’

Now it sounds like Barry’s trying too hard to reassure him. William’s getting paranoid. ‘You have the stuff?’ he’s asking.

‘I do,’ Barry’s saying, tapping a plastic bag on the desk. ‘You have the money?’

‘I do,’ William’s saying. Taking a wad of notes from his pocket. Taking a few steps across to the desk where Barry’s sitting. Putting the two hundred pounds down beside the bag. Doing his best to look confident. Not an easy trick. He’s picking up the bag and opening it. Yes, he remembers what Calum said. Get it and get out, quick as you can. But he’s not going to get outside and find that he has a couple of pieces of cardboard in there. He has to know that he’s getting what he came for. Pulling out a passport. Looks convincing. Driver’s licence the same.

‘There’s a printout in there with a few details about the ID. Stuff that isn’t on the passport or licence. Parents’ names. That sort of thing,’ Barry’s saying.

‘Looks good to me,’ William’s nodding, dropping them back into the bag. ‘I’m sure we can do more business in the future. A lot more.’

Out the door and down the stairs. Going a little faster than his sense of pride says is proper. Never mind that. Out the front door and onto the street. Crashing into someone. Dropping the bag. William taking a step back, getting ready to throw a punch. Ready to run. To do anything that keeps him alive.

‘Whoa, look out there, fellow,’ a short guy in his thirties is saying. ‘I didn’t see you.’ He’s looking at William with bemusement now, seeing the intensity of his reaction.

‘Sorry,’ William’s saying. Pulling himself together. ‘I was in such a rush. My fault.’ Saying it with a smile. The man stepping back out of William’s way. Walking on down the street, glancing back over his shoulder as he goes. William’s reaching down and picking up the bag. Looking up and down the street. Nobody suspicious. Nobody paying him any attention, other than the guy he crashed into. Walking briskly back to his car. By the time he reaches it he’s so glad to be there that he doesn’t even check for threats. Just gets in, starts up and drives.

‘Here you go, Donald Tompkin – everything you need to fuck off with.’ A relieved grin on William’s face as he drops the bag on the kitchen table.

‘No problems?’ Calum’s asking.

‘Nope.’

‘And you weren’t followed?’

‘Nope,’ William’s saying, and wishing he’d checked.

Calum’s taking the passport and driver’s licence out of the bag. They look good. Perfect, in fact. As good as he hoped Barry Fairly could manage. Just about the last piece of the puzzle. Just needs to set up bank accounts in his new ID and use them to pay for his plane ticket.

‘Thanks, William,’ he’s saying with a smile. ‘You’ve done brilliantly. And that’s the last thing I’ll ask of you.’ A fact that’s a relief to both men.

23

The man keeps walking down the street. Looking behind him all the time. Watching the guy pick up the stuff he dropped and scurry off down the street. So this was the guy Fairly was meeting. They’re not usually complete saps. Fairly’s just about the best counterfeiter in the business. His clientele usually know how to carry themselves without drawing attention. Without drawing suspicion. Not this one. Must be new at this. Better not scare him. Marty’s walking away until he’s sure Fairly’s client can’t see him any more. Now he’s stopping, turning and walking back the way he came. That extra little walk down the street was a favour for Fairly. Don’t scare his clients. Don’t give him anything to complain about. Fairly is useful. Very useful, sometimes. His passports work like a charm. Best you can get, other than the real thing.

In the door and up the stairs. It’s his office above the gadget shop. Doesn’t use it a lot, but he needs it. He lends people money. Short-term loans, long-term customers. It continues to amaze and amuse, how stupid people can be. And Marty just keeps taking advantage. Because Marty’s smart like that. He sees people’s weaknesses, and he makes money from it. Cash and women. Those are the two that make the most money. Marty’s involved in all sorts of other things, but those two are golden. The moneylending is harder. It’s a bitch, truth be known. See, there’s always more women. Some of them let you down. Some go work for someone else, but there’s always more. The moneylending? Jesus, that’s shark-infested waters. Brutal. As bad as it gets. Some of the biggest thugs are lurking in this part of the industry. Marty wouldn’t be involved at all if he didn’t have Jamieson’s protection. And he’s in danger of throwing that away.

Fairly’s still in the office, looking all gormless as usual. Smart guy, but he doesn’t get involved in the brutal side of things. He doesn’t live it, like Marty. Shit, nobody lives it like Marty, Marty’s thinking to himself.

‘Was that your guy I saw stumbling out of here a couple of minutes ago?’ Marty’s asking. Making polite conversation. He wants Fairly out of here. Got a couple of his guys coming round with money they’ve collected this morning. Tough guys. Better Fairly doesn’t see them.

‘Yep, that was him.’

‘Didn’t seem like one of your usual. Looked nervous as hell to me.’

Fairly’s shrugging. People like Marty think it makes them seem tough if they pretend they never get nervous. That’s bullshit. Marty’s probably shitting himself right now. Word going around is that Marty and his brother are in Jamieson’s bad books. Throwing private parties at the brother’s nightclub, not cutting Jamieson in on his share. Stupid, greedy bastard. Yet he thinks he’s the tough one. Huh!

‘Things are changing,’ Fairly’s saying as he gets up from his seat. ‘Especially in the car trade. Opening up. He’s a new one. William MacLean, got a garage on the east side.’

There’s a pause. Fairly’s starting to head for the door, about to say goodbye. Marty’s standing in the middle of the room, his brain trying to find a gear that lets it move forward. Still trying. There it is.

‘You say William MacLean?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Got a garage in the east?’

‘That’s what I said.’

Marty’s holding up a hand. Telling Fairly to stop while he thinks. Fairly’s sighing, but he’s doing as he’s told. Marty pays well. He’s a little shit, but if Barry was prone to judging people, he wouldn’t be in this business.

‘You have a copy of the stuff you did for him?’ Marty’s asking.

Fairly’s looking at Marty with a frown now. You don’t stick your nose into someone else’s business. Even Marty has to know something as simple as that.

Fairly’s turning to walk for the door. Marty’s darting in front of him. Blocking the way out, but with his hands up, pleadingly.

‘Look, Barry. This is important. That William MacLean – there might be more to this. Trust me. I might be about to do you the biggest fucking favour anyone ever did you. No word of a lie. Let me see a copy. If I’m wrong, I’m wrong. Who cares? If I’m right, I’ll be saving your bacon here, mate. Saving it.’

That wheedling tone. Fairly would love to tell him to shove it, but he can’t. Self-preservation. He’s going back across to the table, unbuttoning the pocket on his jacket. Taking out the rough copy he made. That he always makes. Because you never know.

Marty’s standing over the table, looking down at the picture. Puffing out his cheeks.

‘Well?’ Fairly’s asking. Annoyed, impatient.

‘This is . . .’ Marty’s lost for words. He wants to say that this is a brilliant opportunity. That this could get him right back into Peter Jamieson’s good books. But that’s not what he’s going to say to Fairly. ‘This is important. Listen to me, Barry, yeah? Listen. Right. I need to keep this. Just for a wee while. Go home, I’ll call you. I need to set up a meeting. You’ll need to be there. This is important. I’m not kidding you here.’

Fairly’s left the office. Marty’s sitting at the desk, looking at the copy of the passport in front of him. He knows the face. Not a recent photo, but he knows the face. How to profit most. Go for the long-term. That’s always the answer. Especially when you’re hanging on, like Marty is. This could solve a lot of problems. He’s picking up the phone. Calling Young. No answer. Shit! Probably ignoring him. They’re still pissed off. Fine, be like that. There’s another way. Calling Kevin Currie. Explaining a little, holding back enough. He needs to have something to take to the meeting with him. Marty knows how to play these games. Currie doesn’t like it. He wants everything. Sure he does. He wants to be able to pass on all the information himself. Gain more of the credit for it. Marty’s pissed off that he’s having to go through Currie anyway. Currie’s a senior man with Young and Jamieson. Makes them a lot of money with booze and fags. They trust him. Shouldn’t be this way. Young should just answer his damn phone.

Two big bastards have just come into the office. Marty’s gesturing at them to get out. He’s still on the phone to Currie. Going to try Young again. The two thugs are going out. Not looking too impressed. Marty isn’t an easy man to work for. They’ve heard the rumours about a fallout with Jamieson as well. They’re worried. Not going to take being pushed around for much longer. Not unless they hear more positive stories about Marty’s protection. Marty’s finished with Currie. Calling Young again. Again the call ignored. Little bastard!

Marty could just go to the club. One of them is bound to be there. No. Don’t turn up without warning. They won’t like that. He has to play this one by the book. Go in there with information that’ll floor them. They won’t like the info he brings. Too smart to shoot the messenger, though. This’ll make them see how useful Marty and his connections can be.

24

Late night last night. Early morning this morning. The meeting with Deana Burke has pushed Fisher back towards Shug. That’s what he wanted. He didn’t want to know that he was running out of time, sure, but he wanted to know that he was running in the right direction. Shug had Hardy killed as part of his deal with MacArthur. Alex MacArthur would have insisted on it. Oh, how sweet it would be to get MacArthur too. Can’t get him directly, but might get lucky via Shug. If he can get solid charges against Shug. Have him in an interview room, get him nervous and get him talking. With a hardened operator, you get nothing. But Shug Francis isn’t a hardened operator. He’s nice and soft. Fiddling around with stolen motors doesn’t harden you for life at this level. There are a lot of very naive low-level criminals. They think what they do makes them tough. Makes them ready for anything. They have no idea.

Didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. Too much thinking. Working out the best angle for attack. No longer thinking about the best way to arrest Shug and get a solid case. Now thinking about the fastest way. If Fisher delays, Peter Jamieson takes the decision out of his hands. Then he has to target Jamieson, and that’s not likely to get him anywhere. Not now, anyway. He had Kenny, and that could have led to something. He nearly had Frank MacLeod. Got this close. Then, nothing. Frank disappears off the face of the planet. Two possible reasons. The less likely is that he ran. The more likely is that Peter Jamieson had his former gunman killed. Silenced, if you want to look at it that way. Now Kenny’s gone, and Jamieson didn’t have to do a thing about it. Shug, in his stupidity, has taken away an avenue of destruction for Jamieson. Doesn’t even know that he’s done his enemy a favour.

Right now Fisher’s hoping Shug will do another enemy a favour. He’s sitting along the street from the house. Car facing the other way, watching his mirrors. Far enough away that nobody in the house will see him in the car. Also far enough away that he has a poor view. Poor is better than none. He’s waiting for Shug to leave. To drive somewhere in one of his chintzy sports cars. Lead Fisher to a new point of investigation. Find someone that Fisher can lean on. Just give them some new information. All they’ve been drawing are blanks. You deal with people like Jamieson and MacArthur and they leave you nothing to play with. A guy like Shug leaves plenty. Makes enough mistakes. Maybe that stops now – he’s living up to MacArthur’s standards. Or maybe they just need to watch Shug a little more closely.

Watching the house and waiting. Watching the clock ticking down. How long will Jamieson wait? He’ll want Shug crushed. It’ll happen soon, and leave Fisher with nothing. Worse than nothing. His entire investigation a source of ridicule for others. That’s if his efforts in recent months haven’t already become a joke in the station. Failure piled upon failure. Young cops losing their respect and fear of him. He needs something. Now he’s watching closely. His thoughts are interrupted by movement at Shug’s front door. A woman coming out, going to a car in the driveway. Taking something from it and going back into the house. That’ll be the wife. Elaine. She’ll become a target for Fisher, if he can’t find anything better. Usually wiser to ignore the fierce women of the underworld. They don’t crack. But she’s not like them. She could be soft too. Give it another couple of days. Find something concrete, or go for her.

It’s nearly eight o’clock in the morning when a car pulls up further down the street from Shug’s house. Looks like the driver’s in a hurry. A man getting out, small, close to middle-aged. Hard to spot facial features at this range. Should have brought a camera. Could have turned in the seat and zoomed him. He’s walking quickly up to the front door. Ringing the doorbell and waiting. Standing with his back to Fisher. Little bastard, whoever you are. The door’s opening and the man’s going inside. Now Fisher’s sitting and waiting. Making a judgement. Who do you follow? Sit tight and mark Shug, or pick up the newcomer? Not an easy one to make. The newcomer could be important, or he could be a complete waste of time. At least with Shug you know you’re tailing a man who matters. You’re tailing your principal target.