The Sudden Arrival of Violence: A Glasgow Underworld Novel 3 (28 page)

They’re stopping outside a small corner shop. Should be the right sort of place. The taxi’s waiting outside. Calum walking in. Dingy place. Darker than a corner shop should be. Not very inviting. Along to the short aisle that sells cleaning products. On a bottom shelf he can see the familiar blue box, about the size of a tissue box. Thin gloves for cleaning with. Taking them to the counter. The young woman behind the counter is a study in boredom. Not interested in this young man coming in to buy gloves and nothing else. Not interested in looking him in the eye. Running the box over the scanner, telling him how much he owes. Taking the money, giving the change. Within ten seconds of him leaving the store she won’t remember even vaguely what he looked like or what he was wearing. There’ll be a security camera somewhere. That does her thinking for her. It’ll remember the detail she won’t, Calum’s thinking, as he walks back out to the taxi. They’re pulling away from the shop, on to the next address.

Paying the driver and getting out of the taxi. Starting to walk the wrong way, until he’s sure he’s out of sight. If the dealer reported him to Jamieson, then he might have taken the number of the taxi as well. They’ll track it down; demand to know where the driver dropped him off, which way Calum was going when he got out, that sort of thing. The driver’s the next link in the chain. The driver won’t know anything. He’s dropped Calum off twenty minutes away from Calum’s actual destination. Keep taking precautions until the job is done. They can still get to you if you’re sloppy. Walking the long walk to the house. A large detached house in a good area. Along the side and round the back. Nobody’s seen him so far. The key’s under the plant pot beside the shed. In the back door, to the big, empty, cold house.

This is where Jamieson and Young put him after he killed Glen Davidson. Their safe house. Swanky place, but mostly devoid of furniture. It’s somewhere to hide out. Might even have to stay the night. Looking at his watch: it’s into the late afternoon now. The timing of what happens next isn’t in his own hands. Relying on other people to be able and willing to do their part. He knows they’ll be willing. Able is another question. He can force the issue. He’s dialling a number on his mobile. Standing in the big airy living room, asking the woman to put him through to his target. She’s putting him through. The phone ringing and ringing. Calum scuffing his foot along the bare wooden floors. Sounds loud in here. Everything does. The phone eventually answered by the wrong person. Telling him the person he’s looking for is out. Probably won’t be back for a few hours. Couldn’t say when.

‘That’s fine,’ Calum’s saying. ‘As long as they’re in tomorrow morning, I’ll call again then.’ Looking at his watch. Get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be long and difficult. The last day.

42

They’ll have to do this in a hurry. Anything they get from this is a bonus anyway. They’ve done the most important part of setting Shug up. MacArthur’s been in contact this morning to let Jamieson know he’s made the call. Ditched Shug. But that doesn’t mean you stop working. As long as there’s an angle, you work it. Jamieson’s behind his desk in the office. Young’s sitting on the couch at the side of the room. Jamieson has the phone number in his hand, but hasn’t started dialling yet. It’s early evening. Might not get through. Hell, he might be ringing a phone that’ll never be answered again. People run. Some stay because they don’t want to look weak. Or because they can’t believe they’ll ever be brought down. But the ones with sense run. Jamieson would. He wouldn’t admit it, but push comes to shove and he’s out of here. So long, life of crime. Nice knowing you. Not hanging around for the consequences.

Dialling the number. The man could be pissed out of his skull by this hour. Jamieson would be, if he were up excrement creek without a means of propulsion. It’s ringing. Almost a surprise. He thought Shug might have pulled the phone from the wall. Cut himself off from the world before he gets his shit together and gets out of town. He has a wife and kids. He must be doing something to protect them, if not himself.

‘Hello?’ Shug’s voice. Well, a man’s voice – Jamieson’s guessing Shug. Sounds miserable.

‘Hello, is this Shug Francis?’

‘It is,’ he’s saying, ‘how may I help?’

Yep, he’s drunk. You can hear the thickness in his voice. A drunk man making too much effort to sound sober. Trying to be polite. ‘Shug, this is Peter Jamieson. I think things have got to the point where you and me need to have a proper conversation.’

There’s silence. Jamieson waiting to hear Shug hanging up. That’s what he would do. Shug has to see that he’s in a no-win situation here. There’s no chance of getting out of the trap he’s walked into. Jamieson would know it. He’d rather take the destruction than be manipulated and humiliated one last time. There’s a chance with Shug. A chance that he doesn’t know the business well enough. A chance that he’ll reach out and grasp at any consolation he can get.

‘You think so?’ Shug’s asking him.

‘I do.’ Jamieson’s relieved. Just by answering back, Shug’s letting the conversation run. Giving Jamieson a chance. He usually only needs one. ‘Things have gone in a strange direction for both of us. You tried to step on my toes, and I didn’t like that. Fine, it’s business. I’m willing to let that slide, given recent events. Someone hit one of my men. Someone hit your moneyman. I think we both know who was behind it. I think we both know we’re being played here.’

More silence. It’s not really a question of what Shug believes. More what he wants to believe. Poor little bugger’s been knocked around from pillar to post. Right now, he’ll be most pissed off with Alex MacArthur. That, Jamieson hopes, is where his greatest sense of betrayal lies. The man who just abandoned him.

‘You think MacArthur’s been playing you, too?’

‘He told me he was looking to make peace with me,’ Jamieson’s saying. Happy, because of the word ‘too’. Shug’s already blaming MacArthur, doesn’t need to be pushed. ‘Told me that he was making moves against you. Fine, I said. I’ll leave you to it, I said. If he wants to solve my problems for me, so be it. Then he hits my man. That was when I knew I’d been made a sucker by the fucker. Killed my man, right under my nose. Made me look like I can’t protect my own. You know what that does for my credibility? Fuck-all, that’s what it does. So now, I want to strike back. I want to make sure MacArthur doesn’t get what he wants. He works this hard to play you and me, he’s doing that for a reason. To take your business and make me look weak. I’m his next target. I say we don’t let him play us. I say we protect your business, make me look strong and make him look like a total idiot.’

You see, this is the problem in having a conversation with a drunk man. They’re prone to bouts of silence, while they try to compose the next sentence. They don’t realize it. They think they’re being fluid. Just being careful about what they say. So Jamieson’s waiting. And waiting. Not that he blames Shug for taking his time. This is worth thinking about. Even if he were sober, Jamieson would allow him a little time to consider it.

‘You have an offer?’ Shug’s asking. Wanting to know what’s in it for him.

‘I do,’ Jamieson’s saying. ‘I’m suggesting that you sell me a half-share in your company. Call it forty-nine per cent. You still get to run it. I’ll be buying the legit business. A legit deal. And a promise that I won’t try and take the rest from you, either. See, MacArthur wants it all. Whatever he offers, he wants it all. I’m guaranteeing you a deal that leaves you still making money. No matter what happens, your family gets provided for if you go down. Gives you something to come out to.’

Nobody likes hearing that they have to make plans for a prison sentence. But Shug’s going to get one. Even he has to see that, drunk or not.

‘You might have a point. What do I have to lose?’ he’s saying with a snort. The kind of self-pitying bullshit that Jamieson’s been expecting. ‘I’ve got nothing else. I’m going to lose it all. Shit! I’ve lost it all. Yeah, the fuck, I’ll do a deal.’ A pause, signalling a slightly more careful consideration of his position. ‘Not tonight. Not right now. I’ll meet you. Tomorrow.’

Jamieson’s turn to pause. Shug might not have a tomorrow. If Fisher’s moving at the speed suggested, an appointment for tomorrow could be a waste of time. But if he pushes Shug, he’ll lose the deal anyway.

‘Okay. Tomorrow. Come round to the club tomorrow morning. You can bring someone with you. One person. Unarmed, obviously. Your mate, what’s his name – Fizzy, Fuzzy, whatever. Poor bastard, we’ve heard what he’s been going through, too.’

‘What d’you mean?’ Shug’s asking. A little more quickly this time.

Play it careful. Don’t overdo it. ‘Oh, well, I don’t know if it’s true. If he hasn’t told you, then it might not be right. I just heard that he was a target for MacArthur. Heard that he had to go to ground. You know, off the radar. I don’t know, though – it’s just the word that was going round at street level. Talk of Shaun Hutton working for MacArthur, going after Fizzy. If you haven’t heard it, then it might not be true. If it is true, then we can offer him protection. You know, if he doesn’t go down, too.’

A pause. ‘No, well, I don’t know,’ Shug’s saying. So unsure now. ‘Maybe.’

‘Listen,’ Jamieson’s saying, moving to end the conversation, ‘we can get this done, Shug. We can make sure that MacArthur doesn’t get things all his own way.’

Young’s smiling. Looks like the little bonus might just pay off. Shug on his own. Paranoid and scared. Knowing that the end of his miserable race is probably round the next corner. Willing to take whatever deal is in front of him. Anything that lets him think he’s getting one over on the people who’ve screwed him. The chance to get off the hook with Fizzy, by blaming it on MacArthur. That sense of revenge – no matter how flimsy – is powerful.

‘I think we got him,’ Jamieson’s saying. ‘He was pissed, though. Might have a whole different story to tell when he sobers up.’

‘No,’ Young’s saying, shaking his head confidently. ‘He might sober up, but he’ll still be in a corner on his own. And he’ll still be mighty pissed off with Alex MacArthur. He’ll do the deal. Just to screw with MacArthur. Doesn’t mean he won’t change his mind later on and start trying to make trouble, mind you. But I don’t think that’ll be a problem. Not with Fizzy on board to run the business for us. That neuters Shug.’ Saying it with just a little bit of smugness.

That annoys Jamieson. It’s a rookie mistake to wallow in small victories when there’s a big problem looming over you. All this Shug stuff could mean nothing until they know where Calum is. What he’s up to. They sent someone to the hospital, but he found nothing. Tracked down the taxi driver who took Calum away from his dealer’s house, but he was useless. Told them where he dropped Calum off. Obviously a false location. Nowhere nearby Calum could use. Calum probably called another taxi from there. He’s a smart runner. Can’t find George, either. He’s just disappeared since that phone call. Could be lying dead in an alleyway somewhere. In a canal. God only knows.

‘Call Fizzy yourself, tell him to answer the next call he gets from Shug. And tell him the story is that he’s been hiding from MacArthur and Hutton, not Shug. Make sure he has the same lie we do.’ Saying it with no great enthusiasm. ‘And when you’re done, let’s get our focus back on what matters.’

43

It was a cold night in a strange bed. Hardly ideal preparation, but that doesn’t matter. Calum’s up and checking his gun. Still there, loaded and ready for use. Washing now. Cold water, a sliver of soap, no toothpaste. He’s not going to smell great by the time today ends. Stinking won’t be the worst thing that happens, though. Going through the kitchen cupboards, trying to find something to eat. Nope. They fill the kitchen only when they know they’re going to be hiding someone here. Obviously haven’t used the place for ages. Maybe not since Calum was last here. He’ll get something to eat on the way. Find a cafe or sandwich shop. First thing he needs to do is get away from this house.

It was a fitful sleep. All the while thinking about someone turning up at the house. Worrying that Young or Jamieson might work out where he’s gone. They haven’t, because they don’t know him well enough. Don’t understand how isolated he’s chosen to be. They don’t understand how few options he has. Leaving by the back door. Locking it, putting the key back under the flowerpot. The habit of cleaning up after yourself. Leaving no trace. Calling a taxi from the back garden. Using a different firm this time. Waiting ten minutes until he hears a car blowing its horn out on the road. Along the side of the house, looking carefully along the street. No sign of anything out of place. Just the taxi idling in the middle of the road. Calum dropping into the back of it.

‘Cowcaddens, is it, mate?’ the driver’s asking.

‘Aye, that’s right,’ Calum’s nodding.

Sitting in the back of the car, watching the city drift by. Early morning. People getting to work, getting kids to school. A few streets he recognizes. Knows he’s getting close. It’s a strange feeling, looking out the window at his city. Born and raised here. Yet it means so little to him now. Just bricks and mortar. Only one person left alive in the city that he cares about, and he’s destroyed her life. You live a life that isolates you from others, isolates you from the place itself – it stops meaning anything to you. A city, it’s just a place. A place of work, a place to sleep. There’s no emotional connection. Nothing to make him regret saying goodbye. People tell false tales about their connection to a certain place, Calum’s sure of that. It’s not the place you’re connected to. It’s the people, the time, the events that happen there. Or it’s yourself. A misinterpreted love of the self. No chance of that here.

‘Pull up here on the right,’ Calum’s telling the driver. Paying him and getting out next to a sandwich shop. He’s only a street away from where he wants to end up. Doesn’t matter. He’s minutes away from being out of Jamieson’s reach. Into the shop and buying a sandwich and an orange juice. Eating on the go. Across the street and round the corner. He can see the building he’s aiming for. Plenty of activity around it. That’s fine, just means his target is probably there. Walking along to a bin and placing the empty bottle and sandwich wrapper inside. Stopping to look up and down the street. It’s busy. Plenty of people around, and any one of them could be dangerous. Any one of them could be ready to approach him. Monday morning, lots of glum faces. Calum’s touching his chest, feeling the gun in the pocket. Inside left pocket of his coat, where he always keeps it.